


who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge

by WritingQuill



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - Beat Generation, Angst, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, New York City
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-08-09
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:19:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1957. Manhattan. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes is a young bohemian, living on words and cigarettes and alcohol and sex. </p><p>John Watson just moved to the city to attend the New York University College of Medicine. He is young and naïve, but also stoic and intelligent. </p><p>Their paths cross when John needs a place to live and Sherlock needs a roommate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. your brothers are crazy, I accept their drunk cases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the story is a line from Allen Ginsberg's 'Howl', and this chapter's title is a line from Ginsberg's 'Message'

Manhattan was a scary place for a kid from suburban Maryland, but John Watson walked towards his destination with squared shoulders and a fierce determination burned in him by his father. He scratched his head and cleared his throat before opening the door to The Cedar Tavern. 

The Cedar Tavern was unlike any place John had ever been to. On the outside, it didn’t look like much. The doors were of a dull brown, and there was a small sign saying “Cedar Tavern” above them. The inside wasn’t that much more exciting either, actually: a handful of dark hardwood tables crammed together, a small stage at the back, and a small bar on one side, filled with all different kinds of drinks John had never drunk. What made the place extraordinary, though, was the wall decoration. There were paintings, scrawled poems (they looked like poems, anyway, but John had not clue of their contents), and ridiculous-looking doodles, all carelessly framed and thrown at the walls without much care either. The place was empty, though it was still ten in the morning, so John shrugged that thought away and tapped on the counter as he called for the manager. 

A chubby man appeared on the threshold, coming from the back of the bar. He had an easy smile, dark hair and was a few inches taller than John. 

‘Hi, my name is John Watson. My friend Lestr—‘ 

‘Right! Yes, Lestrade told me about you,’ said the man. He extended a hand towards John, who shook it and smiled nervously. ‘I’m Mike Stamford, the manager. We’re just lookin’ for part-time staff, just someone to man the bar Thursdays, Fridays and weekends.’ 

John nodded along. ‘I can do that.’ 

‘Have you ever worked at a bar before?’ 

‘No.’ 

Mike hummed. He clicked his tongue and shrugged. ‘Ah, well, you’ll learn, yeah? You start Thursday at 6PM, kid. Don’t be late.’ 

John grinned excitedly and nodded. ‘I won’t! Thank you!’ 

John left The Cedar Tavern with his head held high and a big smile on his face. He had just got his first New York job. 

* 

Brooklyn in itself was nice. It was close enough to college that John could ride his bike instead of taking the train, and just the vibrating air of the city pumping through his veins was enough to get him grinning like a mad man. However, living in a bedsit was the worst. It was noisy and crowded, and the sounds coming the from above his were not particularly comforting. John would be lying he said he didn’t miss the comfort of his own home and, after living in that hellhole for a little under two weeks, John was about to snap. 

He arrived for his first shift at the Cedar Tavern early. Mike was impressed, as it appeared that most of his staff thought ‘your shift starts at 6PM’ meant ‘your shift starts whenever you feel like coming’. Since the bar was still empty, Mike taught John how to operate the taps and he explained the prices, how things worked. 

Apparently, they had performances from Thursday to Sunday, though Mike wouldn’t specify of what kind they were. 

‘I don’t know, they just get up on stage and do their thing. Sometimes it’s one of those artsy folk drumming about, then those poets do a reading… Really depends on the day and the crowd, really.’ 

Other than that, John managed to understand everything pretty well, and by the time they were done, it was almost 7:30, and Greg Lestrade was just walking in. He was taller than John, and a bit stronger, too; two years older than John, a friend of his family. In fact, John’s mother had only let John come live in Manhattan by himself because she knew Lestrade was living there as well. 

‘Hey, Johnny! Got the job, then?’ he grinned, getting behind the bar. John smiled back. 

‘Yup. My first shift. I’m just glad to be away from that bedsit.’ 

‘You wanna sleep on my couch? I’ve got plenty of room,’ Greg offered. John shook his head. 

‘Thanks, but I need somewhere more permanent, a place a can focus enough to study, you know?’ 

Mike cleared his throat, and John looked at him. 

‘There’s a fella that comes in here all the time, the tall one? You know, with the hair?’ he asked Greg, who nodded with a smirk. ‘Yeah, he was complaining last week about how he needed a roommate, because he couldn’t afford his apartment on his own anymore. I’ll introduce you to him when he comes by tonight.’ 

‘Really? That’d be great! Thank you, Mike.’ 

‘No problem, kid. Now get to work, you two, I don’t pay you to yammer like a couple of school girls.’ 

John and Greg laughed, but got to work anyway. 

* 

At around 10PM, John was actually starting to get a little sleepy. The bar was bursting with life, though, and that kept him awake. There were all kinds of people there, and they all looked very artistic. This young woman named Judith — though she was probably just a couple of years older than John — introduced herself as she approached the counter, nearly dancing with a big smile. She was probably flirting with him a bit, but he simply smiled and handed her drink. Later, Greg explained that she was a dancer, and she was also a really talented sculptor. A lot of the eyes in the room were trained on one extremely handsome man sitting on a table with his friends, drinking beer with a grin. He had a square jaw, short dark hair and bright eyes. John found himself gulping as he stared at the man. 

‘That’s Jack,’ Greg told him as he opened a few bottles of beer. ‘Girls love’im. Guys, too.’ He gave John a wink and walked away. John didn’t know what to think of that, so he just turned away and bumped into Mike accidentally. 

‘John! The guy I was telling you about his here, come on.’ So Mike dragged John towards a table at the corner, where a dark figure sat with a glass of whiskey, a cigarette and a small notebook. 

‘Hey, Sherlock,’ Mike greeted. The fellow looked up and cocked an eyebrow. 

‘Yes?’ he asked. There was an aristocratic air to him that had John hypnotised for a second. 

‘John here is looking for a room,’ Mike told him. ‘You still looking for a roommate?’ 

Sherlock stood up, rising above all of them, in six feet of long legs, impossible hair and menacing scowl. ‘John, hm?’ he looked John over, rolled his eyes and waved his hand. ‘Fine, sure. Meet me at Bedford Street tomorrow at noon.’ 

‘Really?’ asked John. ‘We’re just going to share an apartment? We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t even know your last name.’ 

Sherlock smirked and sat back down. He leaned back and inhaled a deep drag from his cigarette. 

‘Okay. I know you are a medical student, that you’ve been living in New York for less than a month, and that this is your first real job. Your mother is likely a housewife, and your father is in the military, he probably even served in the war. You feel uncomfortable around drunk people, and don’t have a habit of drinking yourself. That seems enough to go on, don’t you think?’ Sherlock asked. ‘Name is Sherlock Holmes,’ he added with a wink. ‘Now, Mike, bring me another, will you?’ Then he turned to his notebook, and both Mike and John left at the obvious dismissal. 

As he scrubbed the bar, John looked back at that mysterious man and thought about those deductions. They were indeed quite impressive. He wondered what it would be like to live with that guy. He chuckled at all the odd ideas that came to his mind, from a tiny dingy apartment filled with exotic birds to a huge loft, covered with dramatic notes on poetry and music, because he looked artistic enough, and a liquor cabinet better stocked than a fridge. Somehow John thought the latter had more chances of being true. 

Either way, he at least had a proper place to live now. John decided to pack up as soon as he got to the bedsit, so he could get out of there as soon as possible in the morning. 

With that happy thought in mind, John gave another surreptitious glance at Sherlock’s direction, then went back to work, serving Judith another drink, with a big smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I've had this idea for ages now, and finally got around to actually writing about it. I love the Beats, it's a culture that I really admire, and I think that Sherlock would absolutely be a part of it, were he a part of that particular generation, in that particular place.
> 
> Also, I might mention a few real people in the story, but they won't interact with the characters, so don't worry about Sherlock shagging Allen Ginsberg or something like that :)
> 
> I'll try to post as often as I can, so you can leave comments with ideas, thoughts or anything really, if you want to talk to me about the story. Just let me know.
> 
> A few other things:
> 
> The Judith I mentioned is Judith Brown, famous dancer and sculptor from the [New York School](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_York_School), though her personality here was completely invented by me
> 
> and Jack is, of course, Jack Kerouac
> 
> Thank you for reading, you're awesome
> 
> Cheers x


	2. And the Hippos...

It was almost time to meet Watson when Sherlock finished getting ready for the day. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but he needed a roommate, and this was extremely convenient. One must do things one does not wish to do sometimes, as his brother kept telling him over and over and over…

Sherlock growled, threw on his jacket and left. His hair was a mess, as always, but he didn’t particularly care about it. As soon as he stepped on the street, Sherlock lit a cigarette and looked at both sides, seeing if he could see Watson. He checked his watch for the time. Ten minutes still, so he exhaled deeply and walked over to the corner with 7th Avenue to get a coffee. The place was only a minute and a half away — by the standards of Sherlock’s long legs and quick strides — and it was called Rico’s. It was a sort of liberal café owned by a fat Italian man with more hair on his face than on the top of his head, not named Rico but rather Freddo, who may or may not have been involved in the mafia at some point in his life. Sherlock didn’t care either way, the place was close and the coffee was strong, anything else was just going to take up space in his Mind Palace. 

On Fridays, Freddo came in late, and his only employee opened the place. It was a rat-faced bastard called Anderson who for not apparent reason hated Sherlock with a burning passion. Well, there was the fact that Sherlock was a deranged, low-life, artistic homosexual, but this was the Village, what else would one find here? So Sherlock often gave him a tight sneer and tasted the coffee with a small sip to check the contents before actually drinking it. 

By the time he had gotten his coffee (black, two sugars), Sherlock saw Watson crossing the street from where he had possibly taken the train or the bus. He was young and fresh, new to the city, still had that glimmer of hope in his eye that everything would be stupendous. How dull. 

Watson carried a duffel bag on his back — _military issue, clearly given to him by his father_ — and a suitcase on each hand. Not many belongings, never encouraged to pursue individuality at home due to strict parenting. Well, this was just going to be a hoot and a half, wasn’t it? Sherlock sighed deeply and put out his cigarette with the tip of his shoe before downing the rest of his coffee and jogging to meet Watson by the curb. 

‘Watson,’ he greeted. 

‘John, please,’ _John_ said, putting one suitcase on the ground — _left-handed, hm_ — and extending one hand for Sherlock to shake. After that, he picked it up again, and Sherlock started walking towards the building. 

‘Very well. John.’ Sherlock cleared his throat. ‘I play the violin when I’m thinking, and sometimes I don’t talk for days on end… Would that bother you? Potential roommates should know the worst about each other,’ Sherlock said. John seemed startled.

‘What? Potential?’ 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Most people seem to find my company… unappealing. I have tried sharing an apartment before, and my other tenants seldom lasted the week.’ 

To Sherlock’s surprise, John chuckled. ‘Well, I know for sure you can’t be worse than my sister, and I lived with her my whole life.’ And he was surprised even further to find himself joining in on a companionable laugh. Most intriguing. 

‘So,’ John began, timidly, ‘how did you figure out all those things about me last night?’ 

Ah, this was the part that always put people off. The point of no return. After that, _alea iacta est_ and most left within the week. No point putting it off, then. 

‘I deduced it. See, John,’ Sherlock said, turning back slightly to look at John as he scrambled with his bags two steps behind him, ‘most people _see_ , but they do not _observe_. I see the smallest details, it’s all written there, on you for the world to see. And I can translate it into actual information.’ 

‘Right. And you observed all that about me, then?’ 

‘Yes. The way you stand, and how you behave around people who outrank you tells me you were raised very strictly. Mostly likely due to your father’s military background. You have perfect posture and composure, too stoic for someone raised in a soft environment. Your father being military, it is only obvious that he fought on the war, that one was easy. A military man who brings up his son so rigorously is not liberal, he would not have a wife who worked, so your mother has to be a housewife. The fact that you are uncomfortable around drunk people was obvious enough just by looking at you serving the patrons, and the fact that you hardly know how to hold a glass properly told me that you don’t have the habit of drinking,’ Sherlock explained, feeling quite smug. John’s eyes were wide, and he had stopped walking. 

‘What about the fact that I’m a medical student?’ 

‘That was a lucky guess. Good one, though. Judging my your clothes and bringing up, you would either have joined the army, which you clearly didn’t, or pursued an important career. You could have been a lawyer, but your face is too expressive. You found a job at a bar as soon as you got to the city, showing you like a challenge, you like excitement, so nothing in an office, you’d hate that. The last important career remaining? Medicine.’ 

A few beats of silence as Sherlock lit another cigarette, waiting not-so-patiently for John to react. He was expecting yelling, shouting, name-calling. So he was not prepared at all for what actually came. 

‘That was… amazing,’ John said. 

‘What?’ 

‘Extraordinary. Quite extraordinary indeed.’ He smiled widely, and Sherlock’s mind was boggled. He was both mentally and physically gobsmacked. 

‘Really?’ 

‘Yes! It was incredible!’ 

‘That’s not what people usually say…’ 

‘What do they usually say?’ 

‘Fuck off.’ 

John snorted, then laughed, and Sherlock joined it. 

*

The apartment wasn’t particularly big, but it wasn’t small either. It had two bedrooms and a lenient landlady, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock watched as John put his bags on the floor and looked around, his face in clear awe. His excitement proved that he had never lived by himself before. He was still impressed with the world around him. It was oddly endearing, though Sherlock didn’t linger too much on that feeling. 

‘My room is at the end of that hall,’ Sherlock pointed, ‘and yours is right over here.’ He opened the door to the other, slightly smaller bedroom, which had a double bed and a dresser, nothing else. John smiled widely, that being enough for the few possession he had. 

‘Great! I’ll go unpack, then.’ 

Sherlock nodded and left him to it. On the way up, they had discussed the rent and utilities, and knocked on Mrs Hudson’s door to get the details settled. With all that solved, Sherlock was now free to simply lie on his sofa and smoke a cigarette with a book he had “borrowed” from his brother’s townhouse the week before. It was a first edition Wilde, really rather expensive, and Sherlock smirked as he cracked the spine. 

As the day went on, Sherlock read lazily and was vaguely aware of John unpacking and organising his room. Clearly he didn’t have classes on Friday, which could be problematic in the future, were Sherlock inclined to bring someone home with him on a Thursday. He shrugged that thought off, though, and stood up to pour himself a drink, when John walked out of his room. 

‘Done!’ he exclaimed excitedly. Sherlock hummed but didn’t reply further. ‘I’ll probably need a desk, though. For studying and all that. But don’t worry, I’ll keep it in the room, won’t disturb you at all, and—‘ 

‘Yes, thank you,’ Sherlock said. ‘I have to go now, late for an appointment.’ Not really, but he had finished the Wilde he had stolen from Mycroft, and went to get another one.

John’s smile faltered, but only for a millisecond. Anyone who wasn’t Sherlock would have missed it. 

‘Right, yes. Will you be at the bar tonight?’ 

‘Perhaps, haven’t decided yet.’ 

With a pointed nod, Sherlock downed his drink, threw his jacket over his shoulders, then left. 

*

It was a Tuesday morning, two weeks after John moved in, when Sherlock’s opinion of him (or rather, lack thereof, since he hadn’t spent much time thinking about his new roommate) changed completely. 

(John was still not fully comfortable in the apartment, however Sherlock would have bet good money that John was not the type of guy to be comfortable or relax anywhere, really. Too many rules stuck in his head, made him slightly stiff.) 

Though, really, it all started on Monday. Monday night, to be more precise. Sherlock needed a fix, so he went to the place in SoHo where he usually got his drugs from. It was a larger bar than the Cedar Tavern, and its patrons were much more eclectic, varying from poets and dancers, to socialites and stock brokers. Sherlock’s dealer worked there every week night so it was easy to find him. 

Jim smiled when Sherlock approached. His sly grin always made Sherlock shiver, and never in a pleasant way. 

‘How’s the hippie folk, Sherlock?’ he asked, taking a sip from his whiskey glass. Sherlock glared at him. 

‘I’m not here to chitchat, Moriarty. Just give me what I paid for and I’ll be out.’ 

Jim laughed that shrill laugh of his. It was irritating, and if Sherlock weren’t in so much need, he’d have walked out right then. 

‘Well, then, Sebastian, darling, won’t you give sweet Sherly what he paid for?’ his tone was sarcastic, but his second-in-command gave Sherlock the package anyway. Sherlock nodded pointedly, turned and left, not missing another burst of shrill laughter coming from Jim Moriarty. 

On the way out, Sherlock bumped into someone. He looked down to find a young — though probably older than him — Wall Street fellow. Shorter than Sherlock, but still taller than most. Dark brown hair, short and well-groomed; a day’s worth of stubble on his cheeks and dark circles under his eyes. 

‘Sorry, man,’ he said, a husky voice, result of a few too many glasses of Jack Daniels. Sherlock smirked.

‘No, my fault,’ Sherlock said, ‘let me buy you a drink.’ 

After that, it was all a blur, but eventually they found themselves in Sherlock’s apartment in Bedford Street — Michael (his name was Michael) having muttered something about his roommate or girlfriend or something Sherlock didn’t care about — half-naked and writhing against each other, panting loudly and kissing sloppily. Their drunk climax was satisfying enough, and Sherlock completely forgot to tell Michael to leave before he succumbed to sleep. 

So, on Tuesday morning, when Sherlock woke up with a regrettable hangover, he momentarily forgot about the previous night’s endeavours before stepping out of his room and into the communal area of the apartment. There, to his shock, especially as the whole night came flooding back, he found John chatting amiably with his “guest” as he made breakfast. Michael was wearing his same rumpled suit from the night before and had a mug of coffee in front of him. They both looked up when Sherlock approached. 

‘Good morning,’ greeted John. Sherlock nodded and accepted the coffee being handed to him. 

‘Well, it was great talking to ya, John,’ Michael said, standing up, ‘I’m afraid I’ve gotta go, though. Thanks for last night, Sherlock.’ He winked, shook John’s hand and left. Sherlock still stood dumbly. 

‘You okay?’ John asked. Sherlock cleared his throat and nodded. 

‘Yes, yes. What were you two talking about?’ 

‘Oh, nothing, Just New York stuff. Where did you find that guy? I thought you preferred the artist type?’ John asked fondly as he sat on the kitchen table to eat. Sherlock joined him but didn’t eat. 

‘The circumstances seemed appropriate,’ Sherlock replied, and John nodded. A few more minutes of silence, and John had to leave for class. He said a hasty goodbye and left running, muttering something about being late. 

But Sherlock didn’t care, because apparently John didn’t care. John, raised in a military household, being brought up in such a strict way, a serious all-man American male, didn’t care that his roommate enjoyed bedding men on a more-than-regular basis. 

Fascinating.

As it seemed, John was a mystery wrapped in an enigma disguised as a suburban boy pursuing a Medical degree to appease his parents. Fascinating, indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This title is based on the name of a novel written by Jack Kerouac and William Burroughs called [And the Hippos Were Boiled in Their Tanks](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/And_the_Hippos_Were_Boiled_in_Their_Tanks).
> 
> Also, Rico's is a fictional place, but there could be a cafe called Rico's in New York, who knows? (New Yorkers, probably...) And, don't worry, this won't be one of those John-Sherlock-Moriarty love triangle fics because I absolutely hate it, Jim is just a convenient drug dealer. 
> 
> Post scriptum: if you'd like to ask me things, or know about the progress of the story, don't hesitate to give me a shout on my [tumblr](http://bagginswatson.tumblr.com)
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Cheers x


	3. A new life for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a filling chapter before we get to juicy stuff :) Enjoy!

It was unusual to have someone he could have an actual conversation with. 

John loved his parents and his sister, but his home life was always a bit frustrating to him, not only because Harriet was the most annoying human being to ever step on the planet — though after meeting Anderson from Rico’s, John was thinking of putting her in a close second — but also because there was absolutely no way for him to express himself in his home. 

Not that John had a burning need to smoke or listen to jazz or even become an artist. All he ever wanted was to be able to read the books he wanted to read, do what he wanted to do, and be allowed to voice his thoughts, no matter how unorthodox. His father was a strict man, and he taught John a lesson after catching him reading the _Communist Manifesto_ when he was sixteen (he wasn’t a Marxist or anything, he just wanted to learn about things, besides, people are supposed to read these sorts of books when they’re young, when things make sense and are worth fighting for). John still had a few scars from the belt on his backside. 

John flinched at the memory as he began to unload the laundry, then chastised himself for letting his thoughts wander back to his home in Maryland. Though given that he’d been thinking of Sherlock before, it was good that he stopped himself. 

But it was unusually nice to have someone to talk to. Not that Sherlock was the talking type, but he didn’t comment on the books John chose to read, and he never judged John in any way. And John didn’t judge him either. The retired Lieutenant General Watson would probably have a fit if he found out his only son was living with a homosexual. The idea of his father’s shocked face had John laughing all the way up the stairs. 

*

‘Do you even have a job?’ asked John. He and Sherlock were walking back from the Cedar Tavern after John’s shift. It was Saturday night — was 2:30AM still considered night? Or was it morning? — and the fallen leaves from the trees were scattered all over the ground, making crunching sounds as they stepped on them. There was a crisp feel to the air, thick with the expectation of cold, but still warm enough to only wear a light jacket. The lights were bright orange, and there were still people walking around, talking, drinking, listening to music, making music and art and love. John loved New York so much, especially now. Especially when Sherlock was looking up and the faint glimmer of lights bounced off his cheekbones, and John realised every time that he had never seen anything more stunning. 

‘Why do you ask?’ Sherlock replied, eyes closed as he walked alongside John. His left hand was deep in his pocket while the right one held a cigarette between the index finger and the thumb. He brought it to his mouth and took a drag. 

‘Well,’ Joh shrugged, looked forward and snapped his fingers, ‘I’ve never seen you work, you never really talk about it, and yet you always have money to pay for drinks and rent.’ 

Sherlock chuckled, that deep sound that went straight to the depths of John’s belly. ‘I write.’ 

With a smile, John looked back at Sherlock. ‘Really? Like Jack and Allen?’ The thought of Sherlock being a poet was exhilarating. John began imagining that voice reading deep and meaning poems, talking about his mistreated generation and the wrong-doings of the human population. He was such a fascinating man, anything he wrote would probably be brilliant. 

But John was smitten with him at all. Absurd thought, that. 

‘No, not like them,’ was Sherlock’s reply. He did smirk, though, as if the mere thought of writing poetry or prose was funny to him. ‘I don’t believe I have the necessary creativity to pour my ideas out as eloquently as they do. Though William has often made remarks on my intellect, that perhaps I should use it to inspire and change minds.’ 

‘He’s right, whoever he is. What do you write, then?’ 

‘I make contributions to a scientific magazine, and send a few of my discoveries to some journals.’ 

John’s eyes widened as he gaped at Sherlock. ‘Really? That’s why you keep doing experiments in the kitchen?’ 

‘What did you think they were for?’ 

‘I don’t know, boredom? You’re often bored, I just thought whenever it got too hard to breathe or something you liked to blow stuff up. Just for the hell of it.’ 

It took John by surprise that Sherlock laughed at that. Not just that rumbly chuckle he often gave, but a proper, hearty laugh that had him lean forward and clutch his stomach. The smile on his face made him look so much younger and vulnerable. John had the urge to touch him. He didn’t. 

‘What are you laughing at?’ he asked with a smile. Sherlock recovered from his fit of laughter, still giggling slightly and patted John on the shoulder. 

‘You are really odd, John Watson.’ 

‘No, I’m not. I’m just your average joe…’ he shrugged. Sherlock was odd, and peculiar, and extraordinary. John was just trying to get on with life without being notice too much and making a fuss. But Sherlock shook his head. 

‘No, anyone else would have left by now. You stayed. Why is that?’ 

John thought about it. He didn’t care much for the occasional explosions, and the incessant cigarette smoking. And sometimes the thumping sounds in the next bedroom in the middle of the night made it hard for him to sleep. However, he enjoyed Sherlock’s presence. He liked talking to him about books and science and music. He loved it when Sherlock played the violin, when the sounds of Tchaikovsky and Beethoven and Bach and Rachmaninov filled the room. He liked to cook and see Sherlock eat, because he knew he was keeping this crazy genius healthy, at least a bit. John liked everything, even the bad bits, it was all so much fun, like living with your best friend.

‘Because you’re my friend,’ he explained simply. That was all there was need for, really. 

*

John Watson was going to die. 

No, really, he was. He was going to ask Sherlock to be so kind as to send all of his possessions to his parents’s house in Aspen Hill, but he could keep the books, though… John wanted Sherlock to keep all of his books. 

Well, maybe except the medical textbooks. John was going to have them burned and then throw himself into the fire. 

Perhaps it’s time to admit that he wasn’t actually going to die. It sure felt like it, though, as he studied and studied and read and read. Frequent trips to the college library were made, and so many study groups! All the medical students were going insane as they ran around trying to gather as much information as possible in a short period of time. 

Mid-terms were hell. 

John couldn’t even remember the last time he ate food that wasn’t a bagel stuffed with things. He was hungry and tired, but there was just so much to revise. 

The past three weeks had been so busy that John had to ask Mike to give him a break from work. John almost kissed that chubby saint of a man when he agreed, because there would just be no way to study for everything and still go to work on weekends. Sherlock tried to talk him out of doing that. “You need the money, John”, he’d say, and “are you sure? What if Mike finds someone else who is a better bartender than you? You know you’re not brilliant to begin with”. But John wasn’t worried because he knew Sherlock just didn’t like to have Greg prepare his drinks. And it wasn’t as if he was going to be away for so long, just a couple of weeks until the exams were finished. He was even thinking about getting drunk after the last one, just so he could forget about these miserable days. 

Finally, it was The Day. His last exam before this was all over — for a while, at least. Then John would have a little break, pick up a few more hours at work, maybe go to Central Park and just lie there for a few hours, take a nap, watch people walking, just no thinking. 

John woke up feeling a bit overwrought, but a few deep breaths took care of that. He got up, took a shower, brushed his teeth, shaved, then changed into his clothes (the most comfortable items he had that were good enough for leaving the house in) and picked up his book bag. 

Sherlock was sitting by the kitchen table, furiously annotating something on his small Moleskine notebook. John greeted him, but there was no response, so he simply padded around the kitchen, making himself some toast and coffee. 

As John munched his way into Toast #2, Sherlock looked up and regarded him for a few seconds. 

‘What?’ John asked through a mouthful of breadcrumbs and butter. ‘Is there something on my face?’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘No, you’re fine.’

John raised an eyebrow, and the room fell into silence once more. A few minutes later, John finished his breakfast and stood up. 

‘Well, I’m going to go now,’ he muttered, then exhaled deeply. 

‘Good luck on your exam,’ Sherlock said, not bothering to look up from his notebook. John still smiled fondly at him anyway, and left the apartment with his spirits uplifted quite a bit. 

Five hours later, John locked his bicycle in front of the building and got in. He was feeling a mixture of relief and uncertainty. Though he was extremely happy the exams were finally over, there was still that nagging feeling at the back of his mind that he failed. He didn’t, though. Couldn’t have. Not after all that studying. 

Great, more panicking. 

With a sigh, John unlocked the door and was hit in the face by the fresh smell of… tomato sauce? His eyes widened and he dropped his bag on the floor, then went straight for the kitchen. 

’Sherlock?’ he asked, shocked to see Sherlock stirring a pot of what smelled like delicious tomato sauce. ‘You’re making food.’ 

‘Yes, brilliant deduction. I see you’re learning my methods. What was it that gave me away? The pot? The tins of tomato near the sink? Me standing right in front of the stove?’ Sherlock said, clearly sarcastically, though there was no malice behind the words. It filled John with a sort of warmth that he had failed to experience anywhere else. Which was something he’d worry about another time, when there was no pasta involved. 

‘Right, right, whatever. You’re actually cooking. Why?’ 

Sherlock shrugged. ‘You’re hungry, hasn’t eaten properly in weeks. And I feel particularly charitable today,’ then he actually winked, and John forgot about any questions or whatever else that wasn’t Sherlock making him food and him eating the food made by Sherlock. 

The spaghetti bolognese was absolutely delicious — “Cooking is simply Chemistry, John, a dim-witted monkey could do it” — and paired up with that terrible yet warm cheap red wine from the bodega across the street, it sent John to that warm place again, where the sun shone and the wind was sweet, and he leaned back and closed his eyes. 

‘I’ll clean up later,’ John announced from the couch, eyes closed, mouth set in a tiny smile. He heard Sherlock pad around the kitchen, but was way too comfortable to move. 

‘It’s fine, I’ll do it. You go to sleep.’ 

And so he did. 

* 

The day after the exam found John taking that well-deserved stroll around Central Park. He breathed in the fresh air as he walked and revelled in the calm. 

‘John!’ he heard a voice calling in the distance. John turned to see Sarah Sawyer walking towards him. She was in his Biology class, and they had paired up for lab work a few times. John smiled as she approached. 

Sarah was of average height, had light brown hair and warm blue eyes. She always wore bright colors, and there never failed to be a locket around her neck. She was sweet and nice, and it suddenly hit John how long it had passed since he’d last gone out with a girl. He’d been spending so much time with Sherlock or at the bar that he completely forgot about dating. Unless serving drinks to Judith counted as dating. 

‘Hi, Sarah,’ he greeted her. She smiled widely. Oh, yes, this would do. 

*

‘I’ve got a date tonight,’ John announced as soon as he walked into the apartment. Sherlock didn’t look up from the book he was reading, simply hummed in acknowledgement. ’I know her from school. Her name is Sarah, and she’s real nice. We had a few labs together, and she’s really smart.’ 

‘John,’ Sherlock said, finally looking up, tight-lipped and near-growling, ‘as happy as I am that you are willing to spend time with frivolous women you meet at your Biology labs, I actually have work to do, so please spare me the details of what will soon be another romantic failure.’ 

John was speechless. He watched Sherlock turn straight back to his book and exhale smoke from his nostrils. Well, then. If that’s what he thought, John did not care. 

‘Fine, sorry for being such a bother,’ he said, and John knew he was being ridiculous, because who would get so worked up about this? It was ridiculous. And yet… No. No point in worrying. ‘I’ll just get out of your way, then.’ 

So John went to his room to get ready for his date. With Sarah. Who was beautiful and lovely and clever. So Sherlock could just go to Hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from Jack Kerouac's book 'Desolation Angels' -- it's the last line of the novel 
> 
> Also, any questions, personal comments or ideas you'd like to share, you can go to the comment section down there, or talk to me on [tumblr](http://bagginswatson.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Thanks for reading
> 
> Cheers x


	4. Ain't that a bite?

As soon as the door was shut, Sherlock leaped from his chair and began pacing the room. Mrs Hudson hated when he paced that much, she nagged him about the noise and how he was going to dig a hole through her floor pacing like that, which was a ridiculous notion. He sighed loudly, though there was no-one around to hear. 

And it’s not as if he were _annoyed_ or _angry_ that John was going on a date with Sarah Sawyer — what a perfectly _ordinary_ name, Sherlock could almost see her, bouncy light brown curls, ruffled skirt, muted coloured pumps, nice red lips, yes, she was perfectly ordinary, she was the girl one marries and moves to the suburbs with, and Sherlock had to sneer at the mere thought — he wasn’t, at all. He simply did not understand John’s need to date anyone. Dates were rather pointless affairs. Taking someone out, paying for their food and having meaningless, mindless conversations until the evening reached a point where it was mutually acceptable to engage in some sort of intimate contact. Wouldn’t it be easier to just kiss or have sex without all the futility? 

The image of John having sex with his imaginary Sarah Sawyer brought another sneer to Sherlock’s complexion, and an odd feeling at the pit of his stomach. Likely indigestion — he had Chinese leftovers for lunch, and there was a 30% chance that it was way off. 

Besides, they would probably just have a boring evening and go their separate ways. That was the _proper_ way, anyway. John would take her to an early dinner, then have a nice long stroll towards their next destination. Sherlock deduced it would be the cinema. People did love those moving pictures, though Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to care (however he was willing to admit that _Throne of Blood_ was indeed a remarkable adaptation of Shakespeare’s classic). They would most likely see something ridiculous, mindless with some romantic plot or subplot. Something with that dancing guy whose songs John hummed while doing the dishes. Or perhaps a Marilyn Monroe picture — she was so popular even Sherlock knew who she was. Though Sherlock vaguely remembered John muttering something about some Grant man and the Empire State Building. 

Nonetheless, it would be a tedious evening, and John would be back soon, then they could resume their activities. 

Their activities being co-existing amicably in a constricted space, occasionally sharing comments or a laugh, Sherlock even read some of his work to John, by which John never failed to be amazed. And that again brought an odd feeling to Sherlock’s stomach, though it was much more pleasant than the previous one. 

With another resigned sigh, Sherlock put on his coat and left the apartment. Those walls were annoying the shit out of him, and he needed some fresh air to think. He simply could not understand why the thought of John having a date bothered him so much. It shouldn’t, it was normal for a young man of John’s age and background to want to look for a potential mate, a romantic companion, a life-partner. Perfectly feasible. And yet… 

John was different. John always smiled when Sherlock did something others might consider disturbing, he didn’t mind (too much) the experiments in the kitchen, he listened and tried to understand, he admired Sherlock’s intellect even after meeting him. Ordinary as he was, John had interesting ideas about politics — he even got Sherlock to _care_ enough about politics to remember those ideas — and war, he didn’t seem to care about Sherlock’s sexuality, at all, really, even making polite conversation with the ones that didn’t leave before morning. 

A mystery, John was, and had Sherlock hooked, more than drugs ever did. 

And, yes, maybe now that Sherlock thought about it, John was kind of attractive. In an obvious way, he supposed. His hair was of a nice color, and the texture seemed pleasing, thought Sherlock would have to touch to find out (and how he wanted to touch that hair — the tips of his fingers tingled with want). 

‘Hey!’ yelled a guy in a car who almost ran over Sherlock as he crossed 7th Avenue absent-mindedly. ‘Look out, you nosebleed!’ Sherlock ignored him and finished crossing the street, going back to his thoughts. 

John. Those dark blue eyes that never really settled in one color. Perpetually amused eyebrow, slightly larger than average nose — which complemented his face beautifully — and strong yet delicate chin. John had the most expressive face Sherlock had ever seen, and it was a wonder to watch the emotions play out on his lips and cheeks, his brows and forehead.

About his body, Sherlock didn’t know much, only that John was strong since he lifted his fair share of heavy things. He was a bit shorter than average, though he made up for it by having impeccable posture, clearly something he picked up from his father. Sherlock deduced that John played football in high school, bringing another one of those awed expression to John’s face. (‘That was brilliant!’ ‘Obviously. Did I get anything wrong?’ ‘I played wide receiver, not quarterback.’ — the affectionate smirk John gave him was what stopped Sherlock from being annoyed.) So, undoubtedly, he’d be athletic, especially since he rode his bicycle to college almost every day, and walked a lot as well. John was a healthy young man, on his prime, really, and he knew he looked good and gathered looks from eager females. 

Fuming, Sherlock stomped his way to the nearest bar to have a drink. 

*

By ten, Sherlock decided to go back home. After a twenty-minute walk and dodging a couple fighting on his way up the stairs, he opened the door to the apartment to find John lying on the couch with his eyes closed. Sherlock closed the door and John was startled awake. 

‘You’re back,’ Sherlock said. John smirked. 

‘Yes, obviously.’ 

‘Why? What about your date?’ 

John shrugged. ‘Boring. Dinner. A flick. An interminably boring film with Cary Grant who I used to like but now hate,’ he complained, sitting up so that Sherlock could join him at the seat. ‘It just felt off, I don’t know why. She’s a perfectly nice girl, it should’ve been perfect.’ 

Sherlock leaned back and toed off his shoes with a contented sigh. John was home, this was nice. And his date was terrible. Did it make him a terrible person to be happy his friend’s date went terrible?

‘Well, perhaps you’re not cut for “perfectly nice girls”,’ Sherlock said, eyeing John through the corner of his eye. John smiled and nodded. 

‘Perhaps. Of course, if my mother hears that she will probably gauge my eyes out with a wooden spoon.’ They chuckled. John yawned deeply and scratched his eye. ‘Oh, look at that, this damn movie made me sleepy. It’s not even eleven o’clock yet. Well, good night, Sherlock.’ He stood up, waved lamely and left the room. 

‘Good night,’ Sherlock whispered at his wake. 

When he heard John finally retire to bed, Sherlock relaxed fully and thought about his resolution. 

Yes, at the bar, after his second (and last) whiskey, Sherlock made a decision to end all this useless pining. He was going to seduce John and have him. That way, John would always be around and he’d never waste his time with those frivolous women. 

Of course, the downside would be that John was in all likelihood the type of guy who prefers monogamous relationships, but Sherlock supposed that he could be with just one person. That was a thought for later, though. He’d have to get John first. 

He even had a plan already. 

*

The next morning, Sherlock made himself wake up early. He walked over to the kitchen and began making breakfast. Eggs, bacon, pancakes, orange juice and strong coffee — John’s favorite food. John always complained that it was a shame this food was so unhealthy, because it was so delicious. Sherlock didn’t really have a preference, though John’s pancakes were rather delicious. 

(Mycroft could never taste them, or he’d hire John as his personal pancake maker or something, Sherlock mused with a growl.)

He was startled by John yawning as he padded in. 

‘You making breakfast?’ he asked, a small smile brightening his features. Sherlock nodded. 

‘Obviously.’ He place the plate on the table and John sat. 

‘Looks delicious, thank you.’ His smile was warm and fond, Sherlock could barely look as he sat across from John and filled a mug with coffee for himself. ‘You have to eat, too, though!’ 

‘No, I’m not hungry. I ate a banana.’ 

‘Yesterday,’ John said, rolling his eyes. ‘Just eat a bit of eggs and a pancake, yes? Please?’ 

‘Fine,’ Sherlock said in faux-annoyance. It made him happy somehow when John fussed over him. Not like when Mrs Hudson did it, or Mycroft ( _especially_ Mycroft). With John it was… special. 

‘So, any plans for the day?’ asked John after a few minutes of silence. ‘I was thinking of maybe going for a walk. Central Park looks great his time of the year, all yellowish and brown. You know I haven’t been to the Met yet?’ 

‘John?’ 

‘Yes?’

‘Would you like me to join you?’ 

John blushed. ‘Only if you want to, I wouldn’t want to impose or…’ 

‘I’ll go change,’ Sherlock said, standing up. On the way to his bedroom, he smirked shamelessly. This was going to be ridiculously easy, John was already smitten, all that needed to be done was give that final push and he’d be all beautifully pliant in Sherlock’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Ain't that a bite?" is 50s slang for "that's too bad", and "nosebleed" was slang for "stupid" (I downloaded a PDF with a list of 1950s slang from the internet u.u) 
> 
> Thank you for your lovely comments, they are so lovely! Did I mention how lovely they were? Absolutely lovely. Also, thank you for reading, you're awesome!
> 
> Cheers x


	5. Will you love me in December?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from a Jack Kerouac quotation.

As Fall drew slowly to its end, the trees looked more and more frail. Leaves scattered all over the city, the air growing chillier and chillier, and giving room to greys and whites instead of browns and oranges. Thanksgiving bid its farewell to November, and the city started to move more quickly to the sounds of the Christmas cheer soon approaching. 

John stepped out of his train, threw his knapsack over one shoulder and arranged his scarf a little more snuggly around his neck. The air was already a bit too cold for the clothes he was wearing, and he instantly regretted not having worn a hat and the cold wind hit his ears. 

He made a tactical decision and took a cab instead of going for the subway, since he a) couldn’t wait to get out of the damn cold, and b) was really eager to get home. 

It was strange, though, thinking of the apartment where he’d been living for only a few months as home. Going back to Maryland had felt awkward, like he was a visitor where he had been very comfortable once. He’d kept apologizing and asking for permission and just feeling bad that his mother was doing all the cooking and cleaning. But now, whenever the word ‘home’ popped into his head, John only saw a small apartment with books all over, an ordered chaos of Chemical, Biological and Anatomical textbooks along with contemporary literature and poetry, that pathetic excuse for a radio they had on the living room, and a television, which was really just a radio because the screen didn’t work properly. He pictured his neat bedroom, clean and organized to military precision, and Sherlock’s, a great mess of tangled sheets and more books and papers. John felt for the first time like he belonged when he was in Bedford Street. 

The cab driver pulled over and John paid him, then gingerly leaped off the car, trying to run inside the building before he froze to death. 

He sighed deeply when he closed the door to the apartment. It was toasty and cozy, and he couldn’t wait to make himself a warm cup of apple cider with honey and let his fingers defrost. 

‘Hello, John,’ greeted Sherlock, entering the living room, looking like he hadn’t left the house in a week. Which he might as well have, because John had left for his parents’ five days ago and thus had no news of his friend’s whereabouts. Sherlock was wearing blue pyjama bottoms and an old T-shirt under his tartan dressing gown. His feet were bare and his hair was wild. The remaining tension John was holding on his shoulders left him at the familiar sight, and he dumped his bag on the floor, smiling widely at his rumpled roommate. 

‘Hi. Did you have a good Thanksgiving?’ John asked as he hung his coat on the hangers. Sherlock simply shrugged and walked towards the kitchen. 

‘Had dinner with Mummy and Mycroft in Westchester. It was dreadful as always, I can’t stand the sight of that fat idiot.’ 

John nodded at that. He understood how annoying families could be. His mother was fine, he enjoyed spending time with her, but his father was so overbearing, and Harriet was the worst. 

‘Siblings, huh?’ he said with a grin. Sherlock shrugged again, sat at the kitchen table and took out a notebook.

They were silent for a few minutes. John padded around the kitchen trying to find something to eat and was pleasantly surprised to find that there was some spiced cider resting in a pan on the stove. He smiled to himself and began warming it. 

‘Did you make this?’ he asked, his back to Sherlock. 

John could hear the small smile in Sherlock’s lips when he replied, ‘yes, I figured you’d be cold when you arrived. Besides, I do enjoy some hot cider myself.’ 

Those words made John shiver in a way he was not prepared to analyze at the moment, so he attributed it to the cold and continued on with his ministrations, ignoring the ridiculous fluttering feeling in his chest and the warmth that had spread over his cheeks and neck. 

*

Life went on as normal. John went back to school, hitting the library whenever he could to make more and more notes for the extensive and demanding papers and essays his lecturers set, and he resumed his work, enjoying the laid-back atmosphere of the Cedar Tavern on the weekends. John enjoyed listening to the poets reading their work aloud, the musicians sharing their songs, and even some daring interpretive dancers, moving languorously or frantically or even a bit sexually at times, which never failed to be amusing. 

Greg was dating this girl Molly who was really nice and sweet, so she was frequently at the bar and Greg was always with her, which meant some of his workload landed on John’s lap. That was not too bad, though. John enjoyed being useful, and he liked Molly enough that he was happy to let Greg enjoy his fun while it lasted. 

Meanwhile, even though most aspect of John’s life were settled, simple and generally nice, being around Sherlock was more strange as the days went on. Not in a bad way, but it did make John feel uncomfortable, if anything, it was because of the way it made him feel inside. 

More often than not these days, Sherlock’s touches would linger, and John noticed. He noticed the warmth of his hands and the delicacy of those long pale fingers, how much colder the pink tips were compared to that large palm. John would also notice that Sherlock was feeling comfortable enough around him in the apartment that he felt no need to dress himself anymore as he left the shower, he would just walk around the house clad only in a dressing gown (Sherlock was to date the only person John had ever met that owned more than three different dressing gowns, and who actually called them that instead of _bathrobe_ ) or a towel, when the heating had been on for a long time and the apartment was warm. 

Not that John minded _that_ very much, he was a guy after all, and had been in the football team, so seeing guys in towels was normal. But… Sherlock was different. Between the way his dark curls rested on the back of his neck, the gentle curve of his waist and that alabaster paleness of his skin, John was left with tingling fingers and a dry mouth every single time Sherlock left that damn bathroom almost naked. 

There was a certain feminine grace to Sherlock’s figure. It was all sharp angles and taut muscles, and yet… His skin was smooth, almost silky; his body hair was fine and sparse, almost blond (except from the navel to that region just below the waistline of the towel which simply screamed ‘sin’ to John in the most exciting sort of way, even if he wouldn’t admit it to himself), while the mop of curls on top of his head formed a halo around his lovely features, framing those devilish cheekbones like a piece of the most exquisite art. It was a body made of contrasts, and it gave John the shivers whenever Sherlock paraded it around the apartment like it was some sort of French beach. 

Along with all that, there were the smiles. Sherlock smiled more often these days as well. Not overall, just at him. When John made him coffee, Sherlock would smile in thanks. When John woke up, Sherlock would smile in greeting as he entered the kitchen in the morning. They were the sweetest smiles, genuine to a degree he didn’t know Sherlock could achieve. His lips were a bit crooked, giving him a slightly boyish charm, especially with the way his eyes would squint ever-so-slightly. It was lovely, and John found himself doing more and more things for Sherlock in order to get those smiles to grace that face. 

To quote Carroll, “curiouser and curiouser”. 

*

John became more self-aware on a Saturday evening, while organizing tumblers behind the bar and absent-mindedly listening to some inane conversation a couple of faux-intellectuals were having in front of him. 

For all intents and purposes, it was a Saturday like any other. He woke up early and had breakfast at the café by Central Park where he went every Saturday. He walked around for a bit, taking in the bit of sun that had dared to show its face that morning. Went back to the apartment and did some laundry. Just your average Saturday. 

At five, he left for work. Sherlock had been lying on the couch, reading Noam Choamsky’s _Syntactic Structures_ with the utmost focus. John’s goodbye had been ignored, but that was okay, not out of the norm anyway. 

What made that particular Saturday extraordinary, though, happened around midnight, just as John was about to finish his shift and go home. His last bit of work of the day was to clean the cups and wipe the bar, just as he usually did. Bored to death wiping tumblers clean, he glanced over to the corner of the room usually occupied by Sherlock when he showed up, and found that his friend was indeed there. And that he had company. 

A young man (older than John, though, that was for sure) was leaning far too close to Sherlock to be accidental. Their forearms were bumping and he kept running his hand through Sherlock’s hair and arms and shoulders. This guy had curly auburn hair, slicked back with enough grease to make it charming. His cheeks were rosy and his smile was so flirtatious, John could feel the pheromones all the way from the bar, where he almost broke a glass by squeezing it too hard. 

As the two of them continued their hushed conversation, John grew more and more annoyed. An uncomfortable sort of heat made his stomach clench and he felt he was about to get sick. Deciding to have none of that anymore, John put what he was doing on the bar and went to the storage room to get his things and leave. There was no more he could do anyway, especially with this agonizing buzzing inside his head. He felt the heat on his cheeks and an odd sting in his eyes. So, without saying goodbye to Mike, he put on his coat and left. 

Walking towards Bedford Street, John felt that irrational feeling dissipate. That’s what it was, irrational, and he couldn’t name it exactly, because it wasn’t quite anger, and there were some underlying tones of sadness and… longing? Frustrated, John called a night early, brushed his teeth way too aggressively and spit a bit of blood, put on his pyjamas even more aggressively, and laid under his blankets fuming silently until sleep took him. 

*

_There was a knock on the door, which woke him up to find that his room was covered with a warm lazy light that belonged to a Summer morning instead of Fall._

_‘Come in,’ he said, his voice sounding distant even to him. Maybe this was a dream. John wasn’t sure._

_The door opened to reveal Sherlock. He walked towards the bed slowly, calmly, like a heavenly entity. Still not sure this was a dream, John was quiet, only watching that nearly floating figure as he sat on the bed, close to John, almost touching. His warmth filled him._

_‘What…?’ the sentence trailed off. John didn’t know what he wanted to know. What was Sherlock doing in his room? Why was he looking so angelic? What happened to the guy at the bar? Why was he so far away when all John wanted to do was run his fingers through those magnificent curls and breathe in the scent of that marble-white skin?_

_Sherlock was silent, too silent. Definitely a dream, then. Odd, John’s dreams usually featured adventures, mysteries and angry-looking ducks._

_As John tried to get off the bed, Sherlock placed a gentle hand on his knee. It burned like fire, but warmth was such that it made him feel whole, like a part of him had been missing for so long and he had had not idea. It was like heaven, those delicate hands touching him, moving upwards, lightly grazing his thigh. John hummed in pleasure, and Sherlock moved closer. Their torsos were almost touching now, and Sherlock’s hand was cupping the side of his neck, playing with the hair on his nape. John did the same, pulling lightly on one of those lush curls, earning a lovely wicked smile in return. Sherlock’s face got closer and closer, closer and closer, their lips were millimeters apart—_

A car backfire brought John from his dreams with a start. He sat up, panting before regaining his wits. When he realised that under the covers, he was nearly fully hard, the subject of his dream came back to him and groaned aloud. 

That was all kinds of Not Good. 

So, like any other member of the male gender, John decided that this whole thing was just his imagination playing pranks on him. Which meant that he was going to ignore whatever it was that he was feeling, that was brought out by what he had witnessed the night before. As he took care of himself under the covers, John promised that he did not think inappropriate thoughts about his friend. Not at all. Not even for one second. 

*

Forgetting about the dream was really not that difficult, mostly because on Monday, one of his lecturers had set a paper to be handed in on the day they got back from Christmas break. That meant that he’d have to spend the whole break working on the paper, visiting the library to gather notes and not enjoying Christmas. And so he would not be able to return to Maryland for the holidays like he had promised. His mother would be disappointed. 

He was, actually, when he called her to let her know. But she had also been understanding, since being a doctor meant so much to him, and this paper was a step on the way towards his final goal. 

Still, it didn’t stop him from feeling gloomy, his dreams and thoughts of Sherlock completely forgotten as he foresaw a sad and lonely Christmas. 

‘What happened?’ asked Sherlock over their customary Tuesday evening Chinese. John had barely touched his noodles. 

John shrugged. ‘I won’t be going home for Christmas. Dr Jenkins set a paper to be handed in on the day we get back, so I need to use the break to do it.’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘Ah, I see.’ They continued to eat in silence as the subject was dropped. 

The next day, John went to the post office to send the presents he got his for his family. There was still a week left ’til Christmas, so he hoped they’d arrive in time.

As he walked back, a few snowflakes fell on his head, and then it was like they all fell at once. In less than ten minutes, the ground was covered in a pristine white sheet of snow that brought a smile to John’s face. Snow always made him feel better, which was why his favourite season was winter. 

He arranged his hat so that it was covering his ears better, and walked back home with a spring on his step, gleefully catching snowflakes with his tongue. 

John had to dust off the snow from his shoulders when he got home, then he climbed the stairs and unlocked the door, only to find a completely different atmosphere he had left in the morning. 

With a gasp, John took in his surroundings. There was a large Christmas tree by the window that looked just like the Fraser fir his parents usually got for their living room in Maryland. The tree was decorated impeccably, with fairy lights and snowflake-shaped ornaments and colorful glass baubles. There was tinsel around the window frames, around the tree, covering each surface that wasn’t twinkling. And under the tree there was a small pile of presents, some of which John was sure had been hidden in his closet when he left that morning. 

When he managed to breathe again, he saw that Sherlock was standing awkwardly by the kitchen door. John face him and let his smile grow wider. 

‘Did you do all this?’ he asked. Sherlock nodded. John could see that there were a few scrapes on his hands from decorating the tree, and that gentle warmth that usually spread through his chest whenever he was around Sherlock burned brighter, there was a flutter in his belly and John had stop himself from crushing Sherlock into a tight hug. ‘It’s lovely, thank you.’ 

The smile he received back made staying in New York for Christmas all the more worth it. 

* 

On the 24th of December, John woke up really rather late. There was nothing to be done, the streets were covered in snow, the cold was unbearable outside the apartment, and he gave himself two days off to celebrate Christmas with Sherlock in the silence of their home, eating leftover Chinese and drinking spiked eggnog. 

He padded into the kitchen, eyes still sleep heavy, and made himself cocoa because he wasn’t in the mood for coffee. One glance at the clock and he learned that it was way past eleven in the morning, much later than he usually awoke. With a snort, John put his cocoa into his favorite mug and was about to walk back into his room to snuggle under the sheets when something made him stop. 

That hadn’t been there the night before, John knew that for sure. There, stuck to the doorframe, right above his head, was a mistletoe. A million questions popped into John’s mind and all of them were trying to find an explanation for this abnormality. It couldn’t have been Sherlock, it simply couldn’t, because…

A cough, and John tore his eyes from the mistletoe. Sherlock stood before him, eyes dark and indecipherable, wearing casual dress pants, an untucked white shirt and a dark green cardigan. His hair was combed back and still slightly wet from the shower he had clearly just gotten out of. He eyed John curiously and John eyed him back, unable to speak. 

As the minutes stretched before them, it was like the Earth had frozen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh, cliffhanger. 
> 
> Also, sorry it took so long for this one, but at least it's longer, right?  
> I really enjoy reading your comments, so fire away! And remember that you can always reach me directly on [tumblr](http://bagginswatson.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Thanks for reading, you're awesome!  
> Cheers x


	6. Who bit detectives in the neck...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This title is a) from Allen Ginsberg's "Howl", and b) a little joke regarding the more raunchy nature of the chapter and the fact that the original Sherlock Holmes is a detective 
> 
> (I never said you should take me seriously *winks*)

_**A week before Christmas** _

During dinner, John told him how he was not going back home for Christmas. He seemed sad about it, which was odd on a personal level, because Sherlock usually refrained from going back to Westchester for Christmas, especially since he was always forced to go during Thanksgiving. It was always terribly cold and more often than not, it snowed, and Sherlock had no patience for the time it would take him to go and stay a few days with Mycroft and his Mother. No, it was always better to stay in, have drinks at the bar and avoid all that ridiculous nonsense. 

But now, seeing it through John’s eyes, how sad he was for having to stay and not see his family — though he had just gotten back from Maryland, how many times does one need to see their parents anyway? — it made Sherlock want to do something nice for him. And that would improve his chances of wooing John, since so far his tactics had led him nowhere. 

 

The next day, as soon as John got up and left for the post office, Sherlock put his plan into action. He got some leftover decorations from Mrs Hudson downstairs, called in a favor to get a nice tree, and spent hours making the apartment look like it had jumped out of _Miracle on 34th Street_. It was a lot of work, but the look on John’s face when he got home was all the pay-off Sherlock needed. 

Sherlock pointedly ignored the way his stomach fluttered at the sight of John’s smile illuminated by the Christmas lights, and he was not bothered at all by the warm feeling in his chest which was probably due to some bad Chinese the night before. 

That night, Sherlock retired back to his bedroom and spent half an hour deciding on whether he should put up the last ornament given to him by Mrs Hudson — the mistletoe. 

It was the most direct approach in order to achieve his goal, of course, but how would it be perceived? And what if John wasn’t amenable? (Though he had to be, Sherlock was the most observant man in North America, and he would easily bed three fingers that those lingering glances of John had nothing to do with accidents or relaxing his vision or even boredom — no, he was, at least at some level, even he wasn’t aware of it yet, interested in Sherlock in a more-than-platonic way, and it was Sherlock’s job to ensure he finally came to terms with that.)

Still, it took Sherlock almost a week to make up his mind. 

_**24th December** _

Sherlock got up early that day, his mind made up and a new spring to his step. It was a mixture of dread, excitement and resolve. Far too early in the morning for that, but there was little to be done, as he stretched a bit to place the mistletoe on the doorframe. There. Done. No turning back. (Well, he could always take it out, but that would be counterproductive, and Sherlock was nothing if not efficient.)

With that done, Sherlock decided to take a shower to relax a bit. He that as soon as John saw _it_ , their relationship would change. Nothing would ever be the same, the dynamics would shift on way or another. Either John would be happy, relieved, excited even, and kiss Sherlock in earnest, or he’d feel repulsed, cheated, betrayed by a trusted friend, and then leave. 

A small bit of Sherlock was silently expecting the latter, while the rest of him was eagerly hoping for the former. 

After the long, warm, relaxing shower, Sherlock stared at his reflexion in the mirror for a long time. He sighed deeply and combed back his curls, trying to tame them a bit, though in vain. He then put his clothes on, something casual, a bit Christmassy (green was one of the Christmas colors, wasn’t it?). Casual trousers, a shirt (untucked, since he had no plans of leaving the apartment) and a cardigan. Satisfied with his appearance, Sherlock unlocked the bathroom door and left for the living room, where he could already hear John breathing. 

John was staring at the mistletoe as if it held the answers to all of life’s most important questions. His mouth was slightly agape and his shoulders were tense. His left hand shook ever-so-slightly, but Sherlock didn’t think John was paying much attention to that. He looked warm and still a bit sleepy, his bed-head messier than usual, quite endearing, actually. 

With a cough, Sherlock caught John’s attention. They looked at each other for long seconds, both realising that the other had no idea how to proceed. Sherlock himself, usually quite adept at these kinds of situations, found that his brain had gone blank. 

So Sherlock was thankful when John’s eyes moved to his lips. When that lovely pink tongue of John’s darted out of his mouth to lick his sleep-chapped lips, making his intentions subtly obvious. 

It was time to go for it. 

Sherlock placed a gentle hand on the back of John’s neck, pulled him closer slightly, and John acquiesced, lifted himself on his tiptoes, and their lips met. For second, it was all quiet again, just as their lips familiarized with each other. Felling John’s warmth, Sherlock took a deep breath to take in his scent. A beat, and they started moving, slowly at first, almost chastely, because it was what a mistletoe kiss asked for. Then, as they grew braver, John’s arms snaked themselves around Sherlock, pressing them closer together, though it was clear he was much more inexperienced in this area. 

Sherlock did not mind at all being the tutor in this particular instance. 

With the hand that was behind John’s neck, Sherlock massaged the back of his skull, running his fingers through those fine blond hairs. Johns moaned into his mouth, and it was like sparks of electricity ran through Sherlock’s body, all new and exciting, something he had felt in a long, long time. 

Soon, they found themselves pressed against a wall. Sherlock was looming over John, but he didn’t seem to mind. Their kisses had become even more eager and passionate, eliciting louder moans each time. Sherlock could feel himself get harder as they kissed, and he could feel the same happening to John against his thigh. They should probably move elsewhere. 

‘Bedroom,’ Sherlock mumbled between kisses. John’s only reply was an excited nod, and the next second had them tripping their way towards Sherlock’s bedroom, trying not to break the kiss or cause any accidents at the same time. 

The bed was the immediate target as soon as they reached the bedroom, so they flopped casually onto it, John on top of Sherlock this time. John smoothed back Sherlock’s damp curls with one careful hand, then pulled on them only moderately hard, earning himself a brilliantly loud moan from his friend. 

Sherlock smirked into the kiss, licked his way into John’s mouth, sucking, tasting and biting, as John groaned, moaned and whimpered. This was absolutely delightful, even more so when John began trailing deliciously wet kisses down Sherlock’s jaw, nipping gently at his throat, then biting more intensely at the side of his neck, clearly leaving a mark, which Sherlock would be proud to carry around with him for as long as it would remain there. 

His erection was starting to feel uncomfortable, so Sherlock began fumbling with his pants and John’s trying to get them off as fast as possible. John got the message, and followed him, then they removed their shirts. 

Finally, in the nude, Sherlock could admire how lean yet strong John’s body really was. His skin was of a richer tone than Sherlock’s, almost tanned even though there was no sun. The hair on his chest was fair and blond, as was the soft trail that went from his navel to rest beautifully on his groin. God, he was beautiful, like a piece of art. Sherlock wanted to take him apart, to lick him numb, to feel and taste every inch of him. He wanted to take John and to be taken by him. Suddenly, they were too far apart. Sherlock’s fingers tingled and his mouth watered as he turned them over, placed himself atop John and went down his torso, kissing and licking, prompting more and more of those lovely sounds John made, until he reached that proud erection was was more than eager to finally taste. 

John stared down at him, wide-eyed, pupils blown wide. It was his first time doing anything like this, obviously, and Sherlock was going to make it the best he possibly could. 

He placed a chaste kiss on the tip, then suckled on it a bit. John whimpered and grasped the sheets around him tightly to ground himself. With a smirk, Sherlock kept going, taking in as much of John as he could while making his ministrations as pleasurable as possible. He licked and tasted John — who was already leaking, but so was Sherlock anyway — and put pressure where necessary, evoking more wonderful little noises. 

John brought a hand to Sherlock hair and pulled slightly. ‘I’m… I’m…’ he tried to say through mewls of pleasure. Sherlock pulled away from him, climbing upwards and taking John’s mouth in his. They kissed even more passionately than before, Sherlock revelling in the knowledge of John tasting himself in Sherlock’s lips and tongue. 

Sherlock took both of their throbbing erections in one of his large hands and began working them, pumping with enthusiasm as John’s cries fuelled his appetite. They kissed and moaned together as their swelled members slid against one another, the friction causing them both to squirm and writhe. 

Then, as both a surprise and relief, John came with a loud sob, and Sherlock followed soon after, dropping from his position on top of John to lie half on him, half on the pillow next to John’s head. Drenched in their mixed ejaculate, John smiled a dreamy smile that had Sherlock placing a chaste kiss on the corner of his lips. 

With John’s discarded T-shirt, Sherlock cleaned them up, then settled more comfortably on the bed, and soon they dozed off in each other’s arms. 

*

Sherlock wakes up to find the spot next to him empty. It’s still a bit warm, so John couldn’t have left more than a few minutes ago. He is suddenly paranoid. 

What if John regretted this? Was disgusted with himself? 

The what-ifs and whys were clouding his mind, and Sherlock almost missed the quiet, gentle steps making their way towards his door. John entered, pushing the door with his back, carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. 

‘Hey,’ he said with a smile. Sherlock felt himself smile back as he sat up to take the coffee a boxers-clad John offered him. 

‘Good morning,’ Sherlock said. John chuckled as he sat next to him on the bed. 

‘Not quite, it’s a little after eight in the evening. We slept for quite some time.’ 

Sherlock’s eyes widened. He had never slept for so long after a sexual encounter. Though this wasn’t just anyone, he supposed. It was _John_ , and John had a knack for making even the most terribly domestic things such as drinking coffee in bed seem extraordinary. 

They were quiet for a few moments, simply enjoying each other’s company, when a loud rumbling startled them both. 

John started laughing immediately after, blushing furiously. 

‘I think I’m a bit hungry,’ he said, recovering from the fit of laughs. Sherlock smiled fondly. 

‘We should probably get some food, then.’ 

‘Agreed.’ 

An hour later, Sherlock and John were in their pyjamas, spreading various cartons of Chinese food on the coffee table. John went to the kitchen and grabbed two small bottles of ice cold Pepsi from the fridge, opened them with the bottle opener and took them to the living room, where he sat next to Sherlock, closer than they normally would sit, their thighs pressing together comfortably. 

When their bellies were filled and noiseless, John turned to Sherlock and smiled. 

‘Should we talk about that?’ he asked. ‘I mean, it’s fine. It’s all fine, I know you don’t do serious stuff, I’ve seen it, and it’s fine. I don’t even know how to deal with this, and I know that you—‘ 

‘John?’ 

‘Yeah?’ 

‘You’re different.’ 

’I’m different,’ John stated, but it was actually more of a question. 

‘Yes. I don’t like the idea of monogamy, it’s silly and unnatural, one simply has to observe how most animals behave. And yet, when I think about these things with you, the sheer simplicity of having a meal and a conversation, then maybe going to bed and just _sleeping_ , it doesn’t feel strange or wrong, it feels… right. Like nothing has ever felt before.’ Sherlock exhales. ‘I know that this whole thing might be quite a shock to you, especially since I’m a man, but if you’re amenable to this, than I am as well.’ 

John’s eyes were wide again, not for a completely different reason this time. He sighed and nodded. Sherlock watched his face go blank and felt insecure for a moment, before John placed a hand on top of his and squeezed. 

‘Okay, then.’ 

Sherlock smiled. ‘Okay.’ 

*

Later, much later, curled up in bed together, naked again, and even more sweaty than before, John pressed a kiss on Sherlock’s chest and looked up at him. 

‘Merry Christmas, Sherlock,’ he said. 

‘Merry Christmas, John.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't the end, don't worry. There's still quite a bit of stuff to happen, so stick around. Also, more sexytimes. I think. Dunno yet, actually. But probably, yes. 
> 
> Again, your comments are awesome, I really appreciate the time you take to write them :D So keep them coming? Yes? No? 
> 
> Well, either way, you're all awesome, thanks for reading. 
> 
> Cheers x


	7. But seas between us broad have roared

During the week leading up to New Year’s Eve, John found himself filled with the strangest thoughts about his feelings, his studies and Sherlock. He tried and tried to focus on the books he had to read for his paper, but every few seconds, his mind would wander and he could taste Sherlock’s skin on his tongue and feel the phantom scent snaking its way up his nostrils, he could even feel his fingers tingling at the memory of Sherlock’s skin, the smoothness and paleness spread open and inviting in front of him. It was frustrating! But it an oddly good way. 

And still… John had his doubts. 

At the moment, John had his books all over the kitchen table as he made his countless notes. Sherlock would stroll in for a cup of coffee or water every so often, and he would brush his fingers along the back of John’s neck. It felt lovely, and John so wanted to throw his books from the table and take Sherlock _right_ there. His sense of responsibility stopped him, though. And his doubts. 

What Sherlock had said to him when they first got together, that lovely speech about how he felt and how he wanted to _be_ with John, it was perfect, but it didn’t erase the memories of countless men walking out of the apartment in the morning, whose names Sherlock didn’t even seem to remember long enough in order to introduce them to John. That past left a nagging feeling at the back of John’s mind, a feeling that told him to stop all of this, to step away before he got too close and it was impossible to get out without hurting himself. It was irrational and overly rational at the same time, because even if John wanted to believe what Sherlock had said, there was so much evidence of the contrary, his brain was going insane. 

_Though_ , John mused as Sherlock entered the kitchen for the umpteenth time that afternoon to grab something he did not need just so he could touch John, _I may be far gone already_. 

*

Mike had been planning a seemingly huge New Year’s Eve party at the Cedar Tavern for the past month, and now it was up to John and Greg to unload the various trucks that arrived with boxes of alcohol and assorted foodstuffs. 

Greg sighed. ‘I hate these damn parties,’ he said. John simply gave him a questioning look, but said nothing because Greg was much more experienced at these things than John. ‘We have to take care of all those drunken _intellectuals_ ,’ the word coming out of his mouth dripping with sarcasm, ‘and don’t get to enjoy the event. I haven’t even seen that fucking ball drop since I started working here.’ 

John shrugged as they walked back to the main area, carrying boxes of liquor and bags of citric fruit. ‘It could be fun, though. At least better than what I was used to back home, that’s for sure,’ he said. ‘Besides, you have Molly, right? She’ll be here, I can cover for you so you two can have a dance.’ 

At that, Greg chuckled at gave John a fond shove with the arm that wasn’t depositing a large bag of lemons under the bar. ‘It’s a deal, then.’ He smirked and winked. ‘And I’ll cover for you and Mysterious Cheekbones over there.’ 

John blushed furiously and choked on his own saliva, which made Greg laugh even harder. He looked around to see if anyone had heard, but it was still early afternoon, so the bar was pretty much empty — John had taken a few extra shifts to help prepare the party, but also because he could use the extra cash.

‘How do you…?’

‘How do I know about you two? I’m not fucking blind, John! Anyone with eyes can see the way you look at him, no matter how stealthy you think you’re being.’ 

‘That obvious?’ 

‘Okay, not _that_ obvious,’ Greg admitted, arranging the new bottles of Jack Daniels on the counter behind the bar. John himself was taking out bottles of Absolut from a box and placing them near the already arranged bottles of Stolichnaya (Mike like to have variety in the vodka he served, but John couldn’t tell the difference between them). ‘Only if the person looking knows you. Mike knows it, Molly knows it… I can bet even that jackass from Rico’s knows it.’ 

That made John groan aloud. He wasn’t comfortable enough yet to let people know. It was scary, being with another man, especially in the current society, and John didn’t know how to lead a normal life and live with his feelings simultaneously. At least Greg didn’t seem judgemental about it, which put John’s mind at ease a bit. 

(He was adamant about keeping his thoughts away from his father. Far, far away.) 

Then Greg grinned and motioned for John to look behind him. Walking in was Sherlock, wearing that ridiculous billowing coat of his, a lovely scarf that even from a distance looked like very expensive Cashmere, and (surprisingly enough) a beanie hat. John smiled at the sight. 

‘Hey,’ John greeted, walking around the bar and waving for Greg to go out back. With a chuckle, Greg complied and left. ‘What are you doing here?’ 

Sherlock, who was brushing snow away from his shoulders and hat with thinly veiled annoyance, looked up at John and shrugged. ‘I was bored and thought perhaps you might be as well…’ he sentence trailed off, but John sort of knew what he meant. 

‘I could use a break, yeah,’ John said with a smirk (and barely contained glee). ‘Not too long, though.’ 

‘Don’t worry, I can be quite expeditious,’ Sherlock purred, walking towards him with that predatory grin of his that John loved. 

Soon they were in the supply room upstairs, kissing rigorously. Sherlock pinned John to the wall, holding his arms up over his head, and John was delirious. Their open mouthed kisses were sending all kinds of electrical waves through John’s body, and he couldn’t help but to grind ever-so-slightly against Sherlock, earning him one of those delicious baritone moans of his. 

Sherlock then kissed his way down John’s throat, nipping across his jaw, nibbling on his earlobe. John squirmed and groaned, turning his head to the side to give Sherlock more room for his ministrations. He could feel Sherlock’s smile against his skin and that only made him even more eager. John managed to get his hands out of Sherlock’s hold and gripped his jacket from the back, running his hands through that lovely expanse of shamefully covered skin, suddenly wishing they were back at the apartment, naked. John brought his left hand up and pulled on those dark curls, hard enough to make Sherlock whimper and bite hard on his neck, which probably left a mark, but John didn’t care, because he needed _more_ contact, he needed to feel Sherlock’s skin _right now_. 

‘Sherlock,’ he gasped. 

‘Hush, John,’ said Sherlock, nibbling his way down John’s throat, soothing the marks with his clever tongue. Then he placed a brilliant kiss on the crook of John’s neck. 

Sherlock’s hands were roaming everywhere now as they kissed. Across John’s back, through his hair, under his shirt and over his bottom. He squeezes there and pulled John upwards, bringing their mouths together again, and John attacked him with his tongue, sucking hard and swallowing more of Sherlock’s groans. 

Indeed, it was really hard to think about his worries and doubts regarding this relationship when Sherlock’s mouth was so sweet and his hair so soft, when all John wanted was to freeze this moment right here and be in it forever just so that he and Sherlock could be the only two people in the world, kissing and making love and…

And then John’s mind went blank because Sherlock was down on his knees, working his jeans open.

*

‘You won’t even stop by for ten minutes?’ asked John. He was buttoning up his best black shirt and finishing getting ready for his shift at the bar. Sherlock was being impossible, lying on the bed like some Gothic damsel, still wearing his pyjamas and refusing to go to the New Year’s party. ‘At least so we can spend the turn of the year together?’ 

‘What’s the point?’ Sherlock argued, throwing an arm across his eyes. ‘It’s a pointless celebration, completely arbitrary. The Chinese celebrate it at a different time, the Jewish people. I don’t see the point in dressing up and leave the apartment just so we can _count to zero_ together. Really, John, that’s just absurd.’ 

John huffed as he pulled his jacket on. ‘God, you’re absolutely impossible! How hard is it for you to put on some clothes and get out for one damn second? It’s New Year’s Eve, Sherlock! It’s an important date to some people, to me, even. I just wanted to spend it with you. You don’t even have to be happy and give hugs, or even sing the fucking song, just…’ he sighed. Sherlock still hadn’t moved. Of course he hadn’t. Sherlock was the most stubborn person John had ever known, and he hardly ever changed his mind. He had deemed the celebration stupid, so no amount of nagging would change it. John only had to resign himself to a lonely evening working the bar and watching all the people enjoy themselves as he brooded. 

Actually… John straightened his back and nodded curtly. No. He was not going to sulk or brood. He was going to enjoy himself no matter how ridiculous Sherlock was being. For all John cared, Sherlock could go to Hell. 

‘Fine. You know what? I don’t care. Just be lonely and moody by yourself. I won’t let you ruin my night,’ John said, stalking out of the bedroom. He put on his coat, scarf and hat, and left, slamming the door with the strength of his resolve. 

He had assumed that being together would make Sherlock a bit softer, but clearly not. He didn’t even want to spend time with John outside of the apartment. And though John admitted that he did not feel comfortable walking through Central Park holding hands, this was different. It was a party among people they knew, who were aware of their relationship and didn’t care. It would have been nice. They would have danced and laughed, exchanged kisses in-between John’s costumers. 

But it was fine. No good thinking about it now. So John pushed the thoughts right out of his mind as he walked towards the Cedar Tavern. 

And of course they didn’t stay away for long. John could feel the grumpiness snaking its way into John’s mood, and that made him angry, which in turn made him grumpy, and wasn’t that an annoying little vicious cycle? Even Greg had noticed something was off, but John managed to give a flimsy excuse and not mention Sherlock in any way. Right. 

The party was going rather smoothly anyway, and John became so busy with the drinks and the cleaning up and the general people-pleasing and small-talk-making that he got all grumpy thoughts out of his head in an instant. By 11PM, all John could think about was _where were those damn lemons?_ Some of the party people were already way past drunk, and that guy William had bought his rather large group of friends a round, which was nice of him. Mike had a jukebox play some nice tunes, the more lively Sinatra songs, a bit of Elvis, The Everly Brothers — “Bye Bye Love” was actually one of John’s favorite songs, so he enjoyed that moment — and Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, and even The Fontane Sisters. It seemed as if at this time of general merriment and partying, these odd beatniks would even listen to commonfolk music. Every time a song John knew began, he sang along excitedly, and as midnight approached, John was almost genuinely happy. 

Fifteen minutes till midnight. Buddy Holly was playing and John could almost hear Dick Clark’s voice announcing the American Bandstand musicians. He smiled happily, shaking his head a bit to the song, and serving Jack a pitcher of beer. 

Greg was having a dance with Molly and John couldn’t help but to feel jealous. Though he supposed he couldn’t really change Sherlock, especially since they’d only been “together” for a week, and it wasn’t as if they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. 

Two minutes to go, and John went to clear the tables by the door. He heard a tapping on the dark window and looked up. 

‘Sherlock?’ he asked, eyes widening. Sherlock was gesturing for John to go outside, so John sighed and went. 

He forgot his coat, though, so as soon as the cold of the streets hit him, John was shivering. Sherlock quickly enveloped him in his great coat to keep him warm. 

‘What are you doing here?’ John asked, looking up. Damn the close proximity, making John want to lean upwards and kiss that cold mouth. 

‘I realise that my protests, though reasonable, may have been insulting in some manner, and that I should be willing to compromise for the sake of this relationship.’ 

‘Really?’ John beamed. The street was empty and quiet, all that could be heard was the muffled sounds of the party inside and their quick breaths. ‘Why don’t we go in? It’s freezing.’ 

Sherlock shook his head. ‘I don’t want to go in. Too many people, it gives me a headache.’ 

John could understand that, so many people would just make Sherlock’s brain overflow with observations, and it was probably distracting, even painful. 

And it wasn’t even that cold under the coat anyway. 

Rhythmic chanting could be heard from outside, most likely the countdown. John looked up and smiled. 

‘I’m glad you came anyway,’ John whispered. ‘Thank you.’ 

Sherlock smiled fondly, one of those rare sights John adored. They leaned closer and pressed their lips together just as the crowd inside the bar started celebrating more loudly. The New Year had arrived, yet John couldn’t care less because he had an armful of Sherlock against him, pliant and lovely lips on his own, and John secretly thought that he’d be the luckiest man alive if he could kiss those lips and hold this man for all the years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (oh wow that was extremely sappy)
> 
> The title is a line from the good ol' "Auld Lang Syne". 
> 
> There are about three more chapters to come (angst! angst! angst!), so stay tuned...
> 
> Thanks for reading, you're awesome! 
> 
> Cheers x


	8. There is no one whose love is perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So so so so sorry for such a terrible delay! Seriously, I feel terrible. I've had a pretty terrible couple of months, though, so I couldn't find it in me to write (don't worry, I won't bore you with the sob story c:). But, really, that's no excuse, so I'm really sorry. I'm planning on pulling an all-nighter (maybe? I've had a pretty massive cup of filter coffee at Starbucks tonight, so) and finishing this story by tomorrow or the day after, tops. It's just a couple more chapters, a bit of angst and all that jazz, so it should be good. Again, I'm really sorry for delaying this so much, please forgive me. 
> 
> Cheers x

Sherlock barely noticed as January went by. He was stuck in a myriad of new sensations and feelings that were still fresh-faced and perky, still captivating and enthralling, interesting and mesmerizing. He could barely categorise so many of them, the flutters on his stomach, the gooseflesh on his arms, the dizziness (not unwelcome, mind) on his mind as he kissed John, talked to John, or simply watched John, which was really the most baffling of all. Sherlock noticed that he could simply watch John for hours at a time, and do nothing else, and yet not feel bored at all. And he had a lot of time to test that particular theory, as John had spent the remainder of his Winter break working on his paper for college. 

John sitting on the desk by the window, surrounded by papers and articles and books, scratching his nose endearingly as his eyes ran through the pages sprawled all around him, making notes furiously, brows furrowed, deeply focused on the task at hand. The typewriter forgotten for now, Sherlock knew John well enough to know he’d only use the typewriter when the work was absolutely, one hundred per-cent done — he hated to type, was terrible at it, actually, which Sherlock found strangely sweet, even though he knew he would never tolerate such lack of ability from anyone else. But that was rather the point, wasn’t it? So fast, John had become Not Just Anyone Else. He was John. Italicized, _John_ , and that thought was as frightening as it was exciting. Sherlock spent hours pretending to read a book, watching John surreptitiously, though he might as well have set up camp with binoculars right behind John’s neck, he was so concentrated he wouldn’t even notice. Remarkable ability, that, of such easy focus. 

But, then, John was often remarkable in his own little ways. And Sherlock had observed. All through January, February, and as they approached March, growing more comfortable around each other in this new relationship, which allowed Sherlock to observe even more, for longer. 

Waking up with John, Sherlock noticed, was still fresh and odd, even after all these months. Before, he had never kept a lover for more than one night, usually finding them boring and dull as his orgasm hit him. Letting them spend the night was an even rarer affair. Yet with John, he had both. A constant sexual parter and bed-mate. They had even hit a point where they would share a bed without having previously engaged in sexual activities. 

After sex, they would lay next to each other for a few minutes, panting heavily and grinning blissfully, trying to gain a bit of composure, then one of them would clean them up, and finally John — because it was always John — would curl up next to Sherlock, throw an arm across his chest, and bury his face in Sherlock’s neck, inhaling deeply. Sherlock would in turn wrap a (surprisingly protective) arm around John’s back and hold him close, letting his muscles relax fully and slipping into careless slumber. On some occasions they would kiss lazily afterwards, which was even better. And even more frightening, because Before John, Sherlock had never kissed or cuddled before. Those were the times when the fluttering on his abdomen would increase, but not uncomfortably. The room would be warm with heat and the vestiges of sex, and yet Sherlock could feel the hairs on his arms stand as John ran a hand across his sides, as he pressed soft kisses along his neck, cuddled next to him as if Sherlock were soft and warm. Novel and startling. 

However, the strangest thing Sherlock observed during this relationship was his increasing dependence in John’s happiness. It was as if they were synchronized in a way that John’s well-being was paramount to Sherlock’s. And that, as they approached the third month of being together, was what made Sherlock start to feel uneasy about their arrangement. 

He could deal with touching and watching and cuddling. He was content with it, in fact. 

But Sherlock was independent. That was his identity. And the fact that he _needed_ John so much made him uncomfortable. Deeply so. 

Involuntarily in a fit of self-preservation, Sherlock started to pull away. Not physically, but emotionally. Then, more willingly, he stopped watching John.

At this moment, Sherlock had just finished making coffee for himself. John had been sitting on his desk, doing research, for the better part of an afternoon, and there was no telling when he’d be finished. So, instead of doing what he had gotten used to, Sherlock put his coffee mug in the sink, threw on his coat and left without bidding good-bye. He needed time to think clearly without John nearby. They had been spending so much time together, Sherlock was afraid he might be losing his sense of self. He walked aimlessly for a few hours, almost got run over by cabs twice, and drank another coffee at a coffee house near Bleecker Street, then walked around Washington Square Park twice. He stared at the arch in annoyance — _it was just a smaller, more pointless Arc de Triomphe, wasn’t it?_ — then continued his walk. The air was cold and brisk as it hit his cheekbones, but under his coat he was growing warmer and warmer. Through all, he thought about John. 

Inevitably, he would hurt John. Sherlock knew very well that he’d end up saying the wrong thing one day, being too insensitive, too callous, disrespectful, or all three at the same time, and John would up and leave, miserably. Sherlock didn’t want him to be miserable, he didn’t want to cause John any pain, but it was statistically more likely that he’d do so than that he’d remain a loving and gentle partner for the rest of their lives. 

_The rest of their lives._

The thought made Sherlock shudder. 

Forever was such a long time, what if he got bored? What if _John_ got bored of him, or decided that he’d rather live in American Dream, marry a nice Republican girl from a nice Republican family from Connecticut, and move to a big house in Westchester, open a practice and raise their children with nice family values. Somehow, the latter brought Sherlock more pain. 

He didn’t want John to suffer, but he didn’t want John to leave. John was remarkable in his own strange way, and the idea of him succumbing to the ordinary was sickening. No, Sherlock was sure John would never go in search of the average American life. He’d likely find someone else. Someone who could actually make him happy, who could love him the way he deserved to be loved, and who understood that he wasn’t average, that he needed something _more_ in his life. 

And yet, Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to want to let him go. It was so confusing! He gripped his curls with both hands and let out a grunt of annoyance. Sentiment was frustrating. Mycroft had always told him that caring was a disadvantage, and now, as he felt so dependent on another human being, as if connected to him by an invisible string, Sherlock could see how very true that statement really was. 

* 

By the time Sherlock returned, John had already gone to bed. On his bedroom, it would appear. And Sherlock found himself at a crossroads. Though his mind told him to go to his room, slip under the covers and sleep by himself, his body told a whole different story. His fingers tingled at the memory of John’s skin. His mouth watered at the thought of exploring John’s with his tongue. His whole skin seemed to be itching, craving the warmth John’s slightly tanned skin exuded. 

With a deep sigh, Sherlock entered his bedroom and changed into his pyjamas. He then brushed his teeth and washed his face. He stared at his reflection for a few minutes. Water still dripping from his cheeks, streaming down his face and into the sink, his eyes seemed sad, even to him, and he couldn’t understand why. Well, he could, but he chose not to allow himself those thoughts. Sherlock looked down at his hands gripping the sink firmly, knuckled white with the effort. He sighed once more and walked towards the hallway, made a reckless decision that had his brain chastising him, and opened John’s door, which was slightly ajar. Sherlock sauntered towards the bed, trying to keep quiet as to not awake John, who even asleep looked exhausted. 

Sherlock slipped under the covers and just laid there, feeling the John’s warmth from afar. That wasn’t long-lasting, though. John opened his eyes just a bit and smiled ever-so-slightly when he saw Sherlock. He then scooted closer and buried himself on Sherlock’s neck, cuddling him to an inch of his life. 

As Sherlock felt the warmth take him over, even as he heard his rational brain scolding him, he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from Allen Ginsberg's poem "Europe! Europe!"
> 
>  
> 
> On a brighter note: 
> 
> I've re-edited one of my old, deleted stories last month, so you can check it out [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/885542/chapters/1706724). 
> 
> And, as always, if you've got any questions about this story or any others, any personal comments or complaints, or even prompts, you can talk to me on my [tumblr](http://bagginswatson.tumblr.com). 
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Cheers x


	9. Moloch the loveless!

Spring break comes way too quickly, and John felt like he was barely managing to cope with the workload. Though, looking at his grades, one wouldn’t notice. John was particularly good at making his great results seem effortless. 

Though, as the break approached, John had been noticing more and more how distant Sherlock was. It had all started that time when he had left without saying good-bye or anything, and the next day had been particularly quiet — in Sherlockian standards, anyway. 

John returned from his last day before the break, and let his backpack fall on the floor with a soft thud. He smiled to himself, and looked around. The apartment was a mess. He had been so busy studying that there had been no time for cleaning. And obviously Sherlock was no of no help, lying around like a Regency era heroine, always with his books and experiments, never with a damn broom. John allowed himself a fond snort as he set about making the apartment look a bit less like a bird’s nest. 

It was when he was cleaning the coffee table that he saw it. A letter, addressed to him in a feminine handwriting. He’d know that penmanship anywhere — his mother. The letter was still sealed, so he opened I with a finger and took out the two pages his mother had written. It was dated two weeks before, and John wondered why Sherlock hadn’t give him the letter. 

Himself chose that moment to walk through the door, looking dramatic as ever in his flamboyant coat, even though it was actually quite warm outside. 

‘Sherlock, why didn’t you tell me I had received a letter?’ John asked, but Sherlock waved the question away as he walked towards his bedroom, probably deeming it irrelevant. With an exasperated sigh, John began reading the letter. Reaching the end, his eyes widened at the message. 

_“… it was such a shame you couldn’t come home for Christmas, darling, but your father and I decided that it would be lovely to go see you in the city. And since you will be on break, you can show us around all the nice sights! We’ll be arriving on the 12th, and I have already made arrangements at the Hotel Edison, which Marienne Crawford recommended from the last time she went to visit Michael._

_Your father and I will pick you up at your apartment the next day at 11AM so we can go for lunch together._

_We can’t wait to see you, sweetheart!_

_Love,_

_Mom”_

Oh, no. This was all kinds of Not Good. 

He had two days to prepare for this visit. Two. Days. 

How would his father react to this apartment? He certainly couldn’t take his parents to where he worked, all those bohemians and poets would make his father angry. 

And Sherlock? 

John groaned aloud as he sat on the sofa, letter forgotten, on the floor. Sherlock appeared in front of him, looking confused. 

‘What happened?’ 

John sighed. ‘My parents are coming to New York. Had you given me the letter earlier, I would have had more than two days to prepare. I have no idea what to do!’ he grasped his hair with both hands and groaned again. This was a disaster. 

And John was thinking he’d have a lovely spring break with his… Sherlock, in peace, just enjoying their lazy days. So much for that now. 

Sherlock sat next to him on the sofa and started rubbing soft circles on his back. Though John could feel his mind wasn’t into it. In fact, Sherlock felt so… distant these past few days, for some strange and unknown reason. Physically, it was just fine. They kissed and had great sex, but… 

‘Sherlock, are you okay?’ 

Sherlock looked up, seemingly confused. 

‘Yes, of course. Why?’ 

‘I don’t know, you seem a bit… far away.’ 

‘I’m right here,’ he said, eyebrow raised. John chuckled. 

‘Yes, I know Mr Literal Man. I mean, emotionally? You haven’t… talked much in the past few days, to me anyway…’ he sighed. ‘Never mind, I have to clean up and organise things for my parents’s arrival. Not that it matters, they’re gonna hate it anyway.’ 

John left Sherlock on the couch and went about gathering his laundry. 

* 

At exactly 11AM, Mr and Mrs Watson — John’s father didn’t answer to Lieutenant General anymore now he was a civilian — pulled up at the curb where John had been waiting for them in front of the building. He smiled sheepishly as his parents exited the vehicle — his father’s proud midnight blue 1941 Chrysler Royal, which he kept pristine — and walked towards him. His father was dressed sharply in dark brown trousers with matching shoes, an off-white shirt and dark blue tie, with a grey cardigan — he was nothing if not austere and monochromatic. His mother, on the other hand, looked lively in her flowery baby-blue dress and lavender cardigan, her greying blonde hair was pulled up in her trademark bun and her reading glasses were hanging from a silver-and-pink beaded string on her neck. 

‘Sweetheart!’ his mother cooed, all but running towards John and pulling him into her tightest hug. He smiled as she crushed his bones, and hugged her back, though less tightly. After she parted from him with a pat on his cheek, John turned to his father, no simply nodded and extended a hand. 

‘How is school, son?’ 

‘It’s good, sir,’ John replied, slipping almost instantaneously into the cadet persona he had developed growing up. Back straight, chin up, shoulders square. He shuddered when he remember he hadn’t had a haircut in two months, and now he could see his father silently judging his appearance. ‘Where, um, do you want to go for lunch, then?’ he asked, trying to get the focus away from him. 

‘Oh, don’t rush us, darling. How about you show us around your apartment? I’d love to see where my son has been living all this time!’ his mother giggled, walking towards the building before John could say a word. His father gave him another strange look and followed her. John sighed, giving up, and went to lead them up, hoping Sherlock wasn’t doing anything too insane when they got there. 

* 

John silently prayed to all deities as he pushed the door to the apartment open. He had done a pretty good job at cleaning over the past two days, but if the past taught him anything, was how fast Sherlock could turn a lovely clean space into a bomb site. 

Luckily, when they entered, it was all just as John had left it. Sherlock, however, was sitting on an old armchair by the window, looking thoroughly debauched, hair all over the place, wearing only his pyjama bottoms and blue silk dressing gown. He was reading _The German Ideology_ , hand buried in his mass of dark curls, lit cigarette dangling from his quasi-closed lips. 

_Damn_ , thought John, trying to look at the mildly horrified look on his mother’s face. His father, stoic as ever, simply nodded and stepped in, without paying John’s roommate another glance. 

‘So, um, this is the living room. That’s my roommate Sherlock, when he’s focused on his reading, it’s hard to get him to engage,’ he gave a nervous chuckle and his mother gulped and smiled. 

‘This is quite nice, isn’t it?’ she commented, mildly. ‘Is that the kitchen, then?’ 

‘Yes, I’ll give you the tour, then, shall I,’ John said, giving his father a pointed look, but the man had yet another strange expression on his face. It was familiar, but John couldn’t place it. ‘Those are the bedrooms, sir,’ John said, trying to get his father’s attention. 

He looked at John over his nose and hummed. ‘Yes.’ Then he seemed to wake from his reverie and joined Mrs Watson in the kitchen, which was thankfully void of any experiments. 

Another ten minutes, and the family decided that was enough of the tour. John led his parents to the door and looked back to Sherlock. 

‘I’ll see you later, Sherlock,’ he said, but only got a non-committal sound in response. The Watsons then left for lunch. 

* 

Lunch was a quiet affair, at least on the Watson men’s part. Mrs Watson talked and talked, smiling as she told John about Harry, about the work they had done on the house, about her garden and her baking contest. She told him about her Bridge club, and his father’s golf outings. They were at a small, friendly-looking diner on the corner of 57th and Fifth Avenue, because Mrs Watson wanted to go see Central Park right after lunch — which was really more like a light snack, because John’s parents had made reservations at the Boathouse for that evening, for which John was thankful, though a bit annoyed because he was not going to have to tell Mike he couldn’t go to work tonight. 

Mrs Watson put a hand on her husband’s stiff shoulder and shook it slightly. ‘Talk to your son, Richard,’ she said with a smile. 

Mr Watson looked at John. Those dark blue eyes, deep with secrets and pains from the war, wrinkled at the corner but not from smiling, they stared at John, pierced through his soul, dug into his very being. John felt glued to his chair, unable to look away. He gulped loudly and covered it up by clearing his throat. 

‘Yes, John. My son,’ he said, simply. Testing the words as they rolled out of his tongue. His father’s voice was deep and a bit croaky, damaged from a lifetime of yelling and shouting and screaming. His eyebrows were dark and stern. His lips were thin, pursed into a single line, never moving not even a little bit, so different from John and his inability to keep his tongue from licking his lips. 

‘Hm, yes, I’m really enjoying school, sir,’ John began, sensing that he was going to start to ramble, but anything was better than an awkward silent stare-match between himself and Lieutenant General Richard P. Watson. ‘I haven’t chosen a specialty yet, but surgery is looking really interesting. My profes—‘ 

‘What does that _Sherlock_ do, then?’ Mr Watson asked, silencing John abruptly. His mother was focused on her salad, and daren’t look up at father and son. John sighed. 

‘He dabbles on a lot of things, really. Scientific journals, poetry…’ as soon as the word “poetry” left his mouth, John regretted it. His father raised a dark, stern eyebrow and nodded. 

‘Ah, of course. The Greenwich Village is known for its bohemian population. Poets, dancers, writers, singers,’ the list rolled from his mouth wrapped in disdain and repulsion. ‘I was surprised to hear that that’s where you chose to live.’ 

John cleared his throat again, took a sip of his water before replying, ‘not really my choice, sir. Between paying my tuition and buying food, my savings and salary are not really enough for anything a lot better. But I really like that place, it’s got… charisma.’ 

‘A drunken bohemian Communist, that’s what you call charisma?’ his father asked, voice tinted with venom. John’s breath hitched and he shivered. Sherlock had not made a good impression on his parents, that much was obvious, but this? This was downright hatred, and John couldn’t see why. 

‘Surely he’s not that bad, Richard,’ Mrs Watson countered. ‘And at least the apartment was clean, which was lovely to see, dear.’ She patted John’s arm and he gave her a small smile. 

‘Where is it that you work, then?’ asked Mr Watson. 

John blinked. A beat before he managed to answer. ‘Well, Greg Lestrade got me a part-time job as a bartender at the Cedar Tavern. Weekends only, no school nights.’ 

His father said nothing, only took his wallet out of his trouser pocket, pulled out a couple of notes, and paid the bills. John and Mrs Watson took it as their sign to leave. 

* 

After lunch, the Watsons took a walk around the Central Park, where Mrs Watson brought out her new Leica — a Christmas gift from her sister and brother-in-law, she informed John — and took some pictures of the birds in the lake, the flowers, and had her husband take a few photographs of her and John hugging by a nice flowerbed. They walked through the Mall, took a picture with the Ludwig Van Beethoven statue — Mrs Watson even managed to coax a smile out of her husband as he posed by claiming he had to at least look like he was enjoying taking a picture with his favorite composer — then walked past Conservatory Water, past Cedar Hill, on their way to the Met. 

‘I don’t even know what to see first!’ said Mrs Watson, looking gleeful as they entered the building. Mr Watson put a hand on her shoulder. 

‘How about you do your own exploring without us holding you back, and we’ll meet here in two hours? I would like to catch up with John Hamish.’ 

John’s eyes widened at the mention of his middle name. It is a truth universally acknowledged that a father in possession of good mood does not use a son’s middle name. There was something more serious his father wanted to talk to him about, John sensed, and he didn’t want his mother to witness it. _Oh God no_ , John muttered internally. 

Mrs Watson simply smiled, though, not a care in the world as she and her trusty camera entered the museum to explore the art and History. 

As soon as she was out of sight, Mr Watson stepped out of the Met, John following him closely, head hung, feeling ashamed already of nothing in particular and everything at the same time. 

Suddenly, Mr Watson stopped and turned. He stared down at John — a shame, really, that John had inherited his height from his mother’s side of the family, because his father was all of six feet tall — eyes squinting in a scowl. John whimpered quietly when he noticed there was no-one around them in this nearly secluded place next to the museum. 

‘Do you know how I managed to get so far in my military career, John?’ he asked. John shook his head. ‘I am extremely observant. I would see things my superiors didn’t and they would promote me. I would notice everything going around during inspections, I caught infractions and misdemeanors, and I never, _never_ , let my guard down.’ 

‘Yes, sir,’ John said, then gulped. He could feel his cheeks burning with fear. 

‘You are going to move to a new apartment. Effective tomorrow.’ 

John’s eyebrows shot so high they were covered by his fringe. ‘Excuse me?’ 

‘You heard what I said, don’t make me repeat myself. John Hamish Watson, you are forbidden to live in that place. Tomorrow I will call Doctor Jones and have him get you a proper job, and you will leave those ridiculous bohemian antics behind. I will not tolerate my son living like that.’ Though Mr Watson’s words were harsh, his tone was calm, and to anyone it would seem as if father and son were having a lovely conversation about gardens. They would not see how fast John’s heart was beating, or even notice the sweat pooling on his lower back as his fists clenched tightly. 

‘I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t just give me orders. Especially about where I will live or work.’ 

That seemed to shock Mr Watson, because his eyes widened. John took a second to congratulate himself for being the first ever person to surprise the man. 

‘What about your interpersonal relationships?’ 

John’s gulp was audible. No, he couldn’t possibly— 

‘You are a disgrace, John,’ his father said, though he did not look sad. 

‘What?’ John tried to played dumb, but it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool Richard Watson. 

‘Do not take me for a fool, John Hamish Watson!’ his voice was thunderous, John was suddenly back at ten years old, when he accidentally broke the lawn-mower, his father livid, shouting at him, the scariest man in the world. ‘I could smell it all over that repulsing apartment of yours. Even _he_ smelled like you,’ he said in disgust, as if just looking at John was enough to make him sick. 

‘Father, I—‘ 

‘No more. You will leave that place immediately. I will request another bed at hour hotel so you can sleep there tonight, and tomorrow we will find you another place. A decent place with actual human beings, nowhere diseased.’ 

That was the last drop. John looked up in fury. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but it is _not_ a disease!’ 

His father simply scoffed and walked away. ‘You will go gather your belongings now and meet your mother and me at the hotel before we have to leave for dinner. Our reservations are for seven o’clock, so I suggest you go now.’ And he was gone into the museum. John stood there for what seemed like hours, probably just minutes though, feeling sad and angry. 

His father could say whatever he wanted, but John didn’t have to listen. With determination, John marched towards the nearest subway station to take the train home. It’s a shame he couldn’t talk to his mother, but John loved Sherlock, and he was going to prove to his father that it was not disease because it was love. 

* 

It was around four in the afternoon when John arrived at the apartment. Nothing special, really, only that Sherlock wasn’t there. Which is a shame, because John wanted to make a point, and arriving at home and kissing Sherlock senseless was kind of the foundation upon which his Making a Point plan was built. 

John leaned against the wall next to the front door and slid down until he was sitting. He hugged his knees in front of him and sighed.

No! He was not going to let his father get to him. He and Sherlock were an item. He loved Sherlock. And though Sherlock had been a bit distant these past few days, it was still all fine. They were fine. Just… his studying had been getting in the way, but it would all go back to normal now. 

He stood up, straightened his shirt and walked out again. Maybe Sherlock would be at the Cedar Tavern, so that’s where John was headed. 

*

John arrived in less than ten minutes what with his frantic near-prancing. The day was bright and clear, a warm spring breeze brushing through the trees, making birds chirp happily. The Cedar Tavern windows were open, like letting the world in on the secret. 

As John made his way towards the door, he saw it. 

On his usual table, sat Sherlock, trademark cigarette dangling from his lips, which were pulled up in that sexy smirk of his. He was nursing a G&T, a teasing finger dipping in and out of the beverage as he chuckled at what the man sitting across from him was saying. The man was dashing. That was really the only word John would think to describe him. His hair was neatly trimmed, slicked back with some sort of grease, but not like those ridiculous teenage greasers — he looked serious and mysterious. Like Sherlock himself, only much more masculine. His jaw was pronounced and strong, his nose was a bit crooked and it shadowed his slightly pouty lips. Dark, dark eyes were covered by a strong set of eyebrows. He was wearing a tweed jacket, white shirt and patterned tie. His own cigarette was resting between his left index and middle fingers, as his left arm was propped up on the table. The right one brought a glass of what looked like bourbon on the rocks to his lips. 

Sherlock and Mysterious Man never broke eye-contact, and it made John sick to his stomach. 

That was why Sherlock had been avoiding him. He was done. He was finished with the relationship and the distance was his way of telling John to go away. 

John took a deep breath. 

Well, then. 

* 

John had acquired a few boxes from the guy next door. Apparently, he was a hoarder, which worked quite nicely at the moment, even if sometimes the smell wasn’t particularly pleasant. 

He did not allow himself to feel sad for something that was going to happen sooner or later. John was used to being the one who felt the most deeply, and now it came right back to bite him in the ass.  
It took him the better part of an hour to get his books and a few personal belongings into the boxes. Now all that was left was putting his clothes into his duffle, and he’d be headed to his parents’s hotel. His father would appreciate it, at least. 

All this foolishness would be over. Maybe John could even ask Sarah on another date. It would all be fine. 

He mentally scoffed at that ridiculous thought. 

Things could not be further from fine if they were at the moon and he at the sun. 

As he put his last jumper into the duffle, John heart the front door slam closed. Shame, he was hoping they could avoid the whole… talking thing. 

With a firm knot, John closed his bag and threw it over his shoulder. Then he walked out of the bedroom — no longer his, he thought regretfully. 

‘What are you doing?’ asked Sherlock with a raised eyebrow. 

‘What does it look like I’m doing? Moving out.’ 

Sherlock’s confusion was palpable, and John almost laughed at it. 

‘Why?’ 

‘Why? Seriously? Well, maybe because my father ordered me to break things off with you, but I said I wouldn’t because I was in love with you and this thing,’ he waved at the space between them, ‘wasn’t crazy or stupid or a disease. And then when I went looking for you, what did I see? Oh, yes, you _clearly_ flirting with some pretentious poet guy at the bar, all doe-eyed and mysterious, leading me to think that, you know what, maybe my father is right. He has lived much longer than I have, and is bound to be more experienced. This thing was ridiculous from the start, because you could never commit fully to it. Ever. It was doomed from the beginning, and I cannot believe I let myself believe you could fall in love with me through sheer wishful thinking.’ By the end, John was panting. His eyes stung with tears he would not let fall. He stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared right back, stunned beyond words. John waited for a few moments, to see if Sherlock had anything to say to defend himself or change his mind. 

Nothing. 

Right. 

John squared his shoulders and nodded. ‘Okay, then. I better me off, I need to take be at my parents’s by six, so.’ 

John didn’t look back as he carried his possessions away. 

He closed the door behind him, but didn’t lock it, because he had left his key on the coffee table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Allen Ginsberg's "Howl" 
> 
>  
> 
> Two chapters in one day? Whaaat? (told you I'd pull an all-nighter) 
> 
> So, yeah, this was a bit angsty, but it should get better. I hope. We'll see *wink* 
> 
> The next one should be up really really soon, so stay tuned. 
> 
> And thank you for reading, you are all brilliant! 
> 
> Cheers x
> 
> P.S.: Mr Mysterious Man is kinda supposed to be a sort of a little bit of William Burroughs, but not too much, just a little bit. I won't name him, so don't worry. But, yeah, just so if you want to look him up to see the look.
> 
> P.P.S.: 'The German Ideology' is one of the texts by Karl Marx, hence the "Communist" commentary by Lieutenant General Watson.


	10. And so must rest in the arms of love at last

_Sherlock stared back, stunned beyond words_. His mind was filled with thoughts and questions, and yet after John’s speech, Sherlock couldn’t summon words. His throat was dry and his ears were buzzing. 

As the door slammed shut, Sherlock came back to reality. He could feel the relentless pounding on his chest, the feeling of his stomach sinking and rolling around on itself. He was going to be sick. He couldn’t understand. 

John had left. He had left. Just like that. 

_I should be happy, shouldn’t I? _thought Sherlock, _that is what John deserves, a life without me dragging him back_. __

__That’s why he had gone to the bar in the first place. Though at the moment Sherlock didn’t know if that had been self-preservation or self-sabotage. Perhaps a bit of both._ _

__He gulped loudly and sat on the sofa, searching his pockets for a cigarette. He still had his coat on, but he felt cold. A shiver ran down his spine as he took a deep, long drag. The G &T he had drank seemed to want to make a re-appearance, so Sherlock clutched his stomach, leaned forward and exhaled, the smoke rolling around his head in a mist. _ _

__Such an odious feeling, what was it? Why was he feeling this way? He had been fine at the bar! Talking and flirting, like usual. That was what he wanted! To be alone, without the burden of commitment holding him back. He didn’t _do_ commitments, after all. The same person all day every day for the rest of his life? Tedious. _ _

__And yet…_ _

__Sherlock sighed, thoughts of John flooding his mind._ _

__He hadn’t actually felt bored in the past few months. Spending his days with John was… calming. His brain felt at ease for the first time, and thoughts weren’t so fast-paced and drowning. Sherlock took another drag only to realise that the cigarette had burned to the filter. With an annoyed grunt, he put it out and lit another one, resuming his thoughts._ _

__John was different, from everyone. He understood that Sherlock couldn’t be understood. He respected Sherlock’s thought process, chuckled fondly at his oddities, he loved with all his heart, even when Sherlock didn’t deserve it._ _

__Oh, god, what had he said? _“but I said I wouldn’t because I was in love with you”_. _ _

__John was in love with Sherlock. He loved him. So soon, and now he was gone, and Sherlock didn’t know what to do because there was too much information he didn’t understand. Feelings, sentiment, it was all out of his depth, but now it was all he thought about._ _

__Why? Why?_ _

__A loud crash brought Sherlock back to the world, and he realised that he had thrown a mug at the wall in a fit of anger. This situation was making him angry, but why?_ _

__It was then that Sherlock caught a glimpse at the kitchen door, where that mistletoe was still pinned. John had refused to remove it, using it as an excuse to kiss Sherlock every time they passed through the kitchen door at the same time. Sherlock smiled involuntarily, and it dawned on him._ _

__How could he have been so stupid?_ _

__Stupid, stupid!_ _

__Of course, it was all painfully obvious now, he felt like an absolute idiot._ _

__*_ _

__Sherlock needed to find John. He went to his parents’s hotel, but where was it? Surely he had mentioned it? _Goddammit, fuck!_ Sherlock thought, his brain coming up blank. He tried to search the apartment for information, and luckily found the letter Mrs Watson had written. _ _

__Hotel Edison. Where was that?_ _

__Searching his Mind Palace, Sherlock estimated the fastest route, and set about changing his clothes. He needed not to smell like Cedar Tavern._ _

__Dark brown trousers and fitted white shirt on, Sherlock traded his coat for a light jacket, and ran down the stairs. It would take him forty-five minutes roughly to get to the hotel by foot, and he didn’t have the luxury of time. He couldn’t afford a cab either, though, so Sherlock ran towards 1D and knocked, bouncing on the balls of his feed anxiously. The tall guy who lived there, former Marine, now working for the postal service, answered and raised an eyebrow._ _

__‘Yeah?’ he asked suspiciously._ _

__‘I need to borrow your bicycle.’_ _

__‘Why?’_ _

__Sherlock all but snarled, trying to signal with his hands how pressing this matter was._ _

__‘I have a very important errand to run, if you would _please_ lend me your bicycle. I’ll return it by tomorrow. Promise.’ _ _

__A few more minutes of negotiations, and the ex-Marine agreed. Sherlock would have smiled, were his muscles not so tight from anxiety and nervousness. Soon he was out of the building, riding as if his life depended on it, never mind that he hadn’t ridden a bicycle since he was twelve. This was much more important._ _

__It was John._ _

__*_ _

__Sherlock almost got run over by a Buick at 8th Avenue, and then by a Ford as it turned the corner of West 39th Street, but he shook it off, ignoring the blasting horns and cries from pedestrians._ _

__The bike skidded slightly when he was about to turn the right on West 47th, but it held together, and Sherlock was panting heavily, wiping sweat off his forehead — mostly cold, he was extremely nervous at this point — but he still managed as smile as he saw the white letters: Hotel Edison. He abandoned the bicycle by the Bellhop at the door and ran towards the reception, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles were white._ _

__‘Watsons! Where are the Watsons?’ he asked the receptionist, a young woman with short auburn hair and pink lipstick. She smiled politely at him, as one would at a toddler, and Sherlock instantly hated her._ _

__‘I’m sorry, but they left for dinner about half an hour ago,’ she told him, slowly and calmly. Sherlock snarled._ _

__‘Where?’_ _

__‘I apologize, sir, but I am not at liberty to give you this information. If you would please leave now, thank you.’ She then showed him the door with one perfectly manicured hand and Sherlock punched the counter._ _

__‘Fine!’ he stormed out, picked up the bicycle from the Bellhop, who simply smiled nervously at him._ _

__Searching his Mind Palace again, Sherlock tried to remember if John had mentioned any dinner plans. Of course, he could wait until they got back, but—_ _

__Wait._ _

__Wait…_ _

__Ah! Boathouse! Yes, of course._ _

__He climbed back on the bike and started pedalling, faster this time._ _

__Sherlock dodged about five cars on Broadway, unfazed by their honks and yells. Lucky for him, 7th Avenue was less busy, and he managed to avoid any accidents, even if he was riding recklessly. Again, unimportant. John, John was important. Now and always._ _

__At Central Park South, he entered through West Drive, rode and rode, past the Giuseppe Mazzini statue and the 7th Regiment Memorial, through Terrace Drive, and across the lake he saw the Boathouse. There it was, in all its glory, and it seemed like a beacon of light to Sherlock. The green roof and white pillars, the light of the moon reflecting from the lake onto the patrons._ _

__Soon he was at the entrance, bicycle secured by a tree._ _

__‘Good evening, sir. Reservation name, please,’ asked the host. Sherlock shook his head, and adopted a pleasant smile._ _

__‘I need to speak with John Watson, actually. I was informed he’d be having dinner here this evening,’ he told the host politely. The host, a middle-aged man with a think moustache and a receding hairline, nodded._ _

__‘Right, I see. Watson, Watson. Yes, table twelve. Would you like me to get him for you?’_ _

__‘If you would, please.’ With another nod, the host walked into the large room where light ambience music was being played by a string quartet at the corner. As Sherlock waited, he deduced that the cellist had carpal tunnel syndrome and that the violinist was having an affair with one of the waitresses._ _

__His thought were interrupted when the host came back, by himself. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow._ _

__‘Where is he?’_ _

__‘Well, sir, he says he doesn’t want to speak with you. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can do.’_ _

__‘You can let me in!’_ _

__‘Sir, I—‘_ _

__Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock stomped into the restaurant and quickly surveyed the perimeter for the Watsons. He could recognise that blond head anywhere._ _

__‘John,’ he said, approaching the table. He could see John instantly tensing up. Mrs Watson’s eyes were wide in surprise, and Mr Watson’s were squinting in anger._ _

__‘Go away,’ Mr Watson said, standing up. Sherlock could never have deduced how tall the man was, he thought he’d be as tall as John, but he almost towered over Sherlock. ‘You will not be speaking to my son any longer.’_ _

__Their little tête-à-tête had managed to gather the attention of some of the surrounding patrons, but Sherlock would not be intimidated by these ridiculous people. Or this odious man trying to look scary. Sherlock wasn’t scared._ _

__‘I think you should maybe let John speak for himself, he is a grown man.’_ _

__‘Clearly he isn’t, since he keeps acting like a reckless child,’ Mr Watson spat, glaring quickly at John, then resuming to look at Sherlock as if he were something found on the bottom of a shoe._ _

__‘Richard—’ Mrs Watson began, but was interrupted by her husband._ _

__‘Quiet, Annabelle,’ he said, never looking away from Sherlock. ‘You will leave.’_ _

__‘Not before I speak to John,’_ _

__‘What do you want from me?’ asked John quietly, clearly pained by the interaction. ‘Haven’t you done enough?’ He sounded so sad, Sherlock mentally kicked himself for making John sound like that. It was all his fault, he was an idiot._ _

__‘John, John, I am sorry!’ he said, looking away from an increasingly angrier Mr Watson, kneeling next to John, who still had his face turned away. ‘I was an idiot, a terrible idiot, worse than Anderson, really. I was afraid of all these feelings, and didn’t know what to do. You have to understand, I’ve never felt this way before. But…’ he quieted his voice, and placed a gentle hand on John’s forearm, ‘you must know that I love you as well, more than I ever loved anyone. And I was afraid that you were going to get tired of me, of this life, and want to leave, to be normal. But you’re not normal, John, you’re extraordinary, and I was an idiot.’_ _

__He finished his speech and waited patiently. A few moments later, he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder. Mr Watson pulled him up and shook him roughly. ‘Stop filling my son’s head with this nonsense. You will leave, and never speak to him again.’_ _

__‘Richard!’ Mrs Watson said, standing up as well. All eyes were on her. She was a small woman, but her stature didn’t matter at the moment, because she was taller than every person in the room. Her eyes were stern, her lips pursed. ‘Look at your son.’_ _

__John, who remained quiet during the speech, was now looking down on his lap, his cheeks were moist and his hands trembled._ _

__‘Look at him. He is miserable, Richard. I don’t want my son to be miserable, and I don’t care that this is not ideal or even… normal, all I want it for my son it be happy,’ she said. Mrs Watson walked over to where Mr Watson stood holding Sherlock, and put a hand on her husband’s, urging him to let go. He did so, looking a bit stunned by his wife assertiveness. ‘Now, you,’ she pointed a finger at Sherlock, her eyes burning, ‘you better take care of my son, because I will not have him be miserable over you anymore.’ She walked back towards John and patted him on the shoulder. ‘You should go, sweetheart.’_ _

__John simply nodded and stood up. He walked away without looking at either his father or Sherlock. Sherlock followed him anyway, ignoring Mr Watson’s rage and confusion in favor of John._ _

__*_ _

__At the edge of the lake, John finally turned and faced Sherlock._ _

__‘Did you mean it?’ he asked quietly._ _

__Sherlock nodded. ‘I did, I really did. All of it.’_ _

__John nodded. ‘Okay.’_ _

__‘I’m sorry, John. I was an idiot, but you have to forgive me. Please, please. I can stand on my knees, if you want.’_ _

__John snorted. ‘No, that would be entirely out of character and make me believe you less. No, it’s… fine.’ He sighed. ‘You’ve hurt me, Sherlock.’_ _

__‘I know. It was terrible. You must understand that nothing happened. I just, I just wanted to feel like I could be me again. But that version of me is gone. I care about you now, you’ve managed to creep into every aspect of my life, all the corners of my Mind Palace, and I can’t…’ Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and he couldn’t continue._ _

__John pressed a hand on his chest. ‘It’s okay. I understand. I’m not saying it was good or even intelligent, but I understand.’_ _

__Releasing a relieved breath, Sherlock nodded, walking forwards. John’s hair shone brightly in the moonlight, his eyes glistened with the few remaining tears, and cheeks flushed. He never looked more beautiful._ _

__‘I forgive you,’ John said, little more than a whisper. ‘I won’t be tired of you, Sherlock. Ever.’ He looked up and smiled. ‘I love you. I can’t promise that I will always like you — in fact, I am absolutely sure I won’t, but that’s okay, because no matter what, I will always, always love you. You’ve managed to creep into my life pretty well, as well, and I can’t imagine my future without you. So please don’t… hurt me again.’_ _

__Sherlock nodded, and closed the distance between them, enveloping John in a tight hug. ‘I promise that I will never again knowingly hurt you.’_ _

__John let out a laugh and nodded. ‘I guess that’s all I can ask for.’_ _

__*_ _

__It was almost eleven in the evening by the time Sherlock and John finished putting all of John’s things back to where they belonged. They had stopped by the hotel to get the boxes and bags, and the rest of the time was spent moving them, carrying them and cleaning everything up._ _

__‘Why is it so much easier to pack than to unpack?’ asked John tiredly as he put the last book on the shelf. Sherlock hummed._ _

__‘At least it’s finished,’ he said, coming behind John and wrapping his arms around John’s waist. John rest his head on Sherlock’s chest and closed his eyes._ _

__‘I’m sleepy,’ he said. ‘It was a long, long day.’_ _

__‘Sorry.’_ _

__’Stop apologising,’ said John, smiling. ‘And please, take me to bed.’_ _

__Sherlock laughed. ‘That I can do.’_ _

__They leaned in and kissed, properly, thoroughly, brilliantly. For the rest of the night, they would rut, writhe, kiss, pump and come; Sherlock would kiss John gently, and then hungrily; John would lick Sherlock and nip on his delicious neck; they would possess each other in every way possible._ _

__But for now, Sherlock simply held John as tightly as he could, because he was not letting go ever again._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Allen Ginsberg's poem "Song" - really beautiful, you should check it out. 
> 
> Anyway, wow. I cannot believe this is over! 
> 
> Please, let me know what you think, your comments mean the world to me. 
> 
> First of all, I'd like to thank everyone that accompanied me on this bumpy ride, everyone that commented and read and supported me. It was truly brilliant, I had so much fun writing this, and I just hope that this story managed to make you all smile as much as I did. 
> 
> Secondly, as always, if you'd like to talk to me or ask questions or anything, I'm on [tumblr](http://bagginswatson.tumblr.com) all the time, and always available. And you can check out my other stories [here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/works). 
> 
> Also, if you've got a chance, take a look at the work of the Beats, it's so great, and I'm sure you will love it ("Footnote to Howl" is still one of the greatest pieces of Literature I've ever read, honestly). 
> 
> I hope you have a lovely day. 
> 
> Cheers xxx
> 
> P.S: I've got not projects lined up after this, but if you'd like to perhaps suggest something in particular, let me know!
> 
> ETA: if you'd like to talk to me about writing or as any writing questions (not that you would, but it's always nice to offer, I guess), I've got a writing [blog](http://writingquill.tumblr.com) on tumblr. Cheers x


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